We reap what we sow
by Hashilavalamp
Summary: He was brought into the world through iron and blood, and he wonders if maybe that is where the fault lies. [Germany through the ages. Historical Hetalia.]
1. Nothing but salt

**Hello there~  
I've decided to post this little series on here after all after some debate! So! **  
**This is a collection of stories, with each chapter looking at a different event in German history from different perspectives, starting with the formal Unification in this chapter.**  
 **I am having a lot of fun writing this series, and I hope you'll have a lot of fun reading this! If something is unclear and you are a bit lost with a historical reference, shoot me a message and I will add clarification in the notes at the end of the various chapters.**

* * *

 **17th January, 1871**

Vanity and the remnants of his pride dictate that he check his appearance one last time before heading out of the room to greet his… guests.

He carefully brushes over the fabric of his uniform to straighten out some of the wrinkles, wincing when he applies a little too much pressure to the still fresh wounds underneath the cloth and the bandages. The wounds his body sustains heal quickly, but the damage wrought upon his people takes time.  
Hopefully he will be spared the humiliation of the blood seeping through. At least that, if the powder already can't properly cover the cuts and bruises on his face.

Bitter anger bubbles up in his chest at the sight of the swelling around his left eye in the mirror, forcing him to avert his eyes finally so the rage burning beneath his skin does not take over him. He never wore the feeling well and the situation is too delicate for him to risk it.  
He has already lost, there is nothing to gain from provoking further.

He does not wear defeat well either, but he will do his best to wear it with dignity.

The doors of the room are pushed open and with his shoulders pushed back and his head held high he strides down the corridor, past the sullen-looking guards in the palace and. He pays them no more attention than he does the pain that shoots through his leg at every step and moves straight towards the meeting room he has been designated to – he would have considered it a bit of a slight under different circumstances, and he is comforted by the knowledge that it is still lavish enough to instill wonder in the less fortunate.

A large decorated desk takes up the middle of the room and when he takes his seat on one side of it, staring at the doors at the far end of the room, he briefly feels like it's him in control. The sweet illusion of power, he reminds him. No arrogance, no posturing, he'd only make himself look like a fool. His instincts tell him to try anyway; it had worked in the past after all.

The minutes tick by in a countdown, as the sense of finality sinks into his conscious with each second lost. And then the doors open for his guests, and the stench of blood and death rolls into the rich rooms, immediately sticking to every bit of furniture and every last crevice like the plague. Under the bandages, the wounds sting and ooze blood.

"Francis! How rude of you to not give us a proper welcoming ceremony! You truly wound me" the first figure that steps into the room calls, his voice as grating and unpleasant as ever, further twisted with the arrogant triumph of a victor. Taking even the liberty to call him by a human name.  
God, Francis already wants nothing more than to bash in his grinning face.

 _Patience. Patience is key._

"Gilbert" he acknowledges curtly, not even rising from his seat, and instead peers past the offending visitor to see just whom the Prussian had referred to with 'us'. Hovering in the door way a little ways behind the man stand two quite familiar people that make his lips curl in a bitter smile; Austria hangs back, studying the room with feigned interest so he won't have to meet anyone's eyes, and next to him with a nearly apologetic smile on his face, one of the Italian boys.  
Roderich and Feliciano, the eternal traitors.

To see them comes as no surprise, but a dreadful feeling settles in Francis' gut as the doors close behind them and each of the three takes a seat opposite from him without invitation. Only three of them.

"Excuse me if I cut the welcoming a little short, but I don't quite remember inviting you" Francis speaks once they have all settled, fixing Gilbert with an even stare, the lump in his throat growing when he catches movement behind him. But the next instance, whatever he saw has disappeared, leaving only the Prussian perched on the chair like a king.

"Much less either of you" he presses on with barely restrained distaste, trying to maintain a casual tone to not let them have the satisfaction of seeing him angry. That is a feeling he needs to contain and nurture for later, when the wounds have healed and the Prussian has his back turned. Rage is like a fine wine and revenge a delicious dessert.

Roderich proceeds to stare at the walls with an impassive expression and Feliciano's smile falters a little, as it should. Gilbert however doesn't bat an eyelash. "I have brought them along, consider them my company" he replies smugly, placing his hands on the desk's surface and lacing his pale boney fingers together. "And I would advise you to not verbally attack them."  
Francis feels his hands twitch at the thinly-veiled threat, and to keep calm he mimics the barbarian's posture to give his hands something other to do than wringing the bastard's neck and subsequently bringing doom upon himself.  
Gilbert still dons the sullied uniform from the battlefield, and when he opens his mouth, the stink of congealing blood hits Francis like a slap.

"That was never my intention, even if I would have every reason to do so, wouldn't you say?" he retorts with a forced smile, relishing in the downwards curl of Roderich's lips and his glare from behind the glasses.  
"I am sorry, Francis" says Feliciano hastily, the name rolling off his tongue so much more melodic than out of the Prussian mouth. His brown eyes hold the glint of unshed tears, making his words sound almost sincere. "But I had to take the opportunity! My heart yearned for it so much, I could not be complete without it! It was nothing personal, nothing aimed against you, I swear."

Mhm, of course.

Heart or not, thief remains thief and no charming smile can make you anything else.

"I believe you, and will not harbor a grudge against you" Francis responds and inclines his head slightly as an indication of his benevolent forgiveness. Or something along these lines. No verbal attacks allowed, after all. The terrible pain in his leg flares up again and with horror he realizes he has bled through the bandages over the deep gash there.  
Some of the tension seems to leave Feliciano and he gives a little happy sigh at the pretense of forgiveness. "Oh thank you! I will not-"

"The question remains, Gilbert, as to why you have these two accompanying you. Surely they have supported you along the way in your endeavor in one way or another but I was not aware this concerns them. Or will there be Austrians and Italians among the humans tomorrow?" France cut the teenage nation off, not interested in listening to the groveling and a much more interested in ridding himself of this nauseating feeling, of the cold dread coiling in his stomach.

His boss didn't want to tell him what will happen tomorrow. And Gilbert seems to be bursting with triumph.

The Prussian bears his teeth in a wide grin, the mirth for once reaching these disgusting red eyes that reflect the blood he sheds anywhere he goes.

So that means—

"You are not so far from the truth, my friend" he sneers and slowly pulls his hands apart to push himself to his feet in a surprisingly elegant motion, even if for a moment he seems to stumble. How nice to see he did sustain some damage as well.

"You must have wondered where I left _Bayern_ , yes? Baden?" The voice like nails on a blackboard drifts over to them, the words nails in Europe's coffin as Gilbert saunters towards the doors of the meeting room with unshakable confidence.

The doors open just the smallest of cracks, enough only for a rat to slip through, and then fall shut again with a foreboding thud.

Roderich stares at the walls again as if that could somehow get him out of the situation, jaw clenched. His nose is broken, Francis notes. And his fingers still bandaged from when Gilbert broke them.  
Feliciano sways his upper body from side to side with a smile still plastered on his sunny face, but the gesture obviously one of pure nervousness and lack of alternative, the dark eyes flitting around and the cuticles bloodied.  
Francis braces himself against the table.

Whoever entered the room is shielded from view by Prussia who guides them closer to them with his back to them and only when he nearly bumps into his chair again, he comes to a halt.  
They all bate their breath; and then Gilbert turns around.

" _Begrüßt das deutsche Reich, meine Freunde_!"

The words echo loud in this room with terrible absoluteness, and in front of Gilbert now stands the ugliest child Francis ever had the misfortune of setting his eyes on.

It's the little boy Francis has seen before on the battlefield, clad in a Prussian uniform that seems too big on such a small frame, but already he stands to attention like the ruler of worlds. Or just an audaciously megalomanic soldier. Almost like a worthy successor to the Holy Roman Empire. (They do seem to share the facial features—)  
Somebody obviously tried to slick back the child's blonde hair, even if some strands fall out of place over his high forehead – but nothing, no attempt at making this child look presentable can distract from the angry red of fresh scars and the black lines of fine stitching stretching across his face. His entire body must be covered in them.  
Gilbert put together a sickening abomination.

" _Benvenuto, Germania!_ " Feliciano suddenly all but coos, and with a slight delay and a lot of reluctance Roderich too turns and greets the child in their unrefined shared language. Gilbert looks like he's drunk on his own pride when he hears his eternal rival speak these words. Expectant ruby fixes Francis.

The nation swallows, his throat suddenly feeling itchy, and humiliation coursing through his blood.  
How dare he. How dare that barbarian.  
Though, should he have expected anything else of that man? They had never gotten along, too different in their natures and goals, because Francis is at his core not a man of war, and for Gilbert it's the only legitimation for life he has. He likes to see the nations bleeding out, and what he likes to see even more is to see them humiliated. So of course he would present the boy to them in this place. And now they expect him to greet this child, this child born from his imminent defeat.

Francis finally swallows the bitter pill and the bitter words of protest and forces out a welcoming to the new nation in their midst, officially recognizing it. He will remember this transgression. He will remember it, oh, Prussia won't be the only that should be careful to not turn his damn back to him.

Even if a part of him tells him it is cruel to think of just a defenseless child in such a manner – a little child that knows no better and who doesn't know to question the one who call himself his brother.  
But then Francis remembers that this is not the first time he has seen a fledgling nation. He remembers Italy, tiny and crying but bright. He remembers America, just as small as the Italians had been but already so independent and so sweet. And this thing before him is not like them. There's something fierce in the piercing stare of the watery blue eyes, and the scars a reminder that this is not a natural thing. Nothing more than a living, breathing trophy. A trophy for a warmonger.

It keeps silent and stubbornly stares ahead and past Francis, as if it hadn't heard the welcome, and Gilbert places his hands on the creature's shoulders, still grinning like a devil. "I felt it would only be fair to let you meet him properly first, that is why I brought us together" he explains, the skin on his face stretching in protest in his attempts to widen the grimace of mirth. "Roderich!"

The nation addressed flinches and with an expression of utter apprehension looks the Prussian in the face. "You, who spent years trying to smother this idea, were so eager to expand your influence again when I picked up where you had left things! I know you wouldn't have let me do as I please if I hadn't beaten you back then. But you submitted like the clever man you are, so I was generous with you. Just stepped on your fingers a little. And thus you helped me in this endeavor of mine, so consider this your reward."

Roderich looks more like he is going to develop an aneurysm than feel grateful about this 'honor' granted to him, and Francis can't even find joy in that anymore. "Feliciano, you were never my enemy and you've proven yourself useful! Furthermore, you must surely remember what it was like, to be so torn apart like my poor little brother is. Look at the child, he looks like he's going to fall apart if you push him the wrong way!" On cue, Gilbert squeezes the shoulder of the child and for the first time it shows a semblance of humanity and winces in pain. "You lack the discipline to act as a mentor for him, but it seems only fair to have you be one of the first to meet him." Disgusting, how Feliciano lacks the shame to look anything but elated. "So here—"

" _Bruder_!"

All three of them stare at the fledgling again who had for the very first time, spoken. And interrupted his brother at that, who stares at him with an almost comical expression of incredulousness, the self-satisfied smirk sliding off his harsh face.  
"I can speak for myself, brother" the nation says again, with a little more force this time and his childish features twisted in petulant determination. Would have been cute on any other child's face. Gilbert must be too stunned to punish him for speaking out of line, because he merely stands there and looks at the kid. Great to see that not five minutes had passed and yet the great Prussia already failed to keep his new brother in line.

"I am not afraid of any of you. Even if you are older than I, you do not scare me in the least. You didn't spare me a single glance when I appeared or you even tried to smother me as quickly as you could, but I stand before you now with the memories of so many years more than you think—"  
"That is enough, Germany!" Gilbert barks suddenly and the child's face immediately drains of the color it gained during his little speech. He pulls up his shoulders and tenses, however Gilbert refrained from inflicting pain again. "This is not the time for you to speak."  
"But—"  
"What did I tell you was a value you'd do well to remember!"  
"…Obedience."  
The answer is muttered without defiance left, the fight quickly taken out of the small thing in the face of his brother's flaring anger. Again, Francis' whole body aches with the hidden bruises and lacerations and gashes. Maybe he can pity that child after all, even if it desperately seems to be in need of self-awareness. Not afraid, ah?

Roderich clicks his tongue in disapproval on the side and haughtily pushes up his glasses, as if he momentarily forgot he has lost his right to exercise influence on the nation. He is lucky Gilbert ignores him.

A tense minute ticks by, and without any warning, Gilbert pinches the cheek of the child.

"Isn't he precious!" he exclaims loudly and laughs freely when the boy scowls and rubs his cheek with his gloved hand. Feliciano's lilting laughter joins his in a moment as the child mumbles something petulant and as Francis cringes at the display. It feels unsettling, so wrong to see Prussia so affectionate towards something that doesn't involve death. From the looks of it, Austria is far from happy about it as well.

"Such an idiotic boy! You haven't learned anything yet! Lucky you that you have such a capable brother!" Gilbert and Feliciano continue to dote on the creature before them, making Francis want to throw all of them out. He was beaten, and this child got to live and is doted upon like he has done anything to deserve it. Ah… perhaps he is getting old.

That must be it. Too much happening at once, too many losses, too little resources. It makes his people reel, this lack of stability. And now he has to tell them that another player has entered the stage that could very well end up causing issues for them. Or even worse than just issues. He knows that brash and arrogant things like that always grow hungry, and this one has already as good as devoured his other brothers – and he will have some of Francis' territory as well. Yes, this child is not good news in any case.

The last time Francis felt like this, there had been the cold metal of a guillotine cutting through the flesh of his neck.

"Now, now, back to business" Gilbert eventually says and takes his seat again, his little brother obediently taking his place behind him, his cheeks still a little flushed from the attention and his childish anger.

"Is there anything more you wish to inform me of that cannot wait till tomorrow?" Francis asks tiredly, trying to pass it off as disinterest even if he knows his own face must be so pale that it could match Gilbert's natural complexion of a corpse. He subtly shifts his position on his chair to relieve himself of some pressure on his injured limb.  
"Yes, do we need to stay here longer than necessary?" Roderich finally piques up, more proactive in his approach than he has been in months somehow. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and shoots his neighbor a little glare.

Gilbert hums, content. "Patience! You have no patience, the two of you! It's important, I assure you!" With a wolfish smirk he leans as far as he can across the desk and looks up at Francis with those eerie red eyes. "We won't see again in a long time after this is done and over with, Francis. A very long time, in fact."

"Oh? What do I owe that honor to?" Francis allows himself to quip, seeing that the little bit of anger is enough to make Gilbert's smile turn genuine.

"Your ties to the others of us will be cut off."

A heartbeat—

"What?!"

Gilbert straightens himself up and continues to wear this infuriating smile as if he already owned the world. "You see, I've spoken with the others. And none of them are all too fond of you, particularly after how pathetic you've proven yourself to be. All of this—" Gilbert gestured wildly around at the decadent decorations of the room, "is a relic of old grandeur, but you've lost your bite and the others have taken notice. Europe is a friend of yours no longer, Francis."

—and the gravity of the words sinks in, truly sinks in to enter his system like potent poison. He does not bother to look at Roderich because that comes as no surprise but Feliciano—Feliciano again gives him an apologetic, hesitant smile. "I've told you, it's nothing personal" he says and ducks his head sheepishly.

"Out! Out of here, with all of you!" Francis feels himself shouting, oddly disconnected from himself in the heat of the moment. His vision is blurry and he vaguely notices that his hands are shaking and that he has sprung to his feet. The pain is unbearable, but the rage that eats him up is worse.  
He told himself he wouldn't let it come to this, that he would remain calm. That he would keep his dignity. Well, so much for that. Gilbert looks so smug. So happy.

"Oho. Somebody is not taking the news well. But alright, I am sure there is something our boss has to tell us for tomorrow, so we will leave you to contemplate your new circumstances!" he laughs and when he gets up this time, the other two follow suit, quickly shuffling out of the room before the newly made outcast can try to get his hands on them.

Prussia and Germany linger, quietly arguing among themselves as they make their way to the exit. The little boy then stops in his limping tracks and roughly tugs at the sleeve of his brother. Francis half-expects the bastard to slap the child for the audacity, however he stays still and listens to whatever the brat demands. His gaze turns back towards France.

"Francis, can you believe it?" he says, wonder in his tone. "The boy asks for a name. Because I called you by one."

"Get out, Gilbert. I don't care to hear it."

The Prussian pouts, the childishness a lot more misplaced on a face like his, and thankfully wipes the expression off only a moment later. "How rude of you. I liked you better when you were full of pretense. When you were just like this palace."

Another impatient tug from the child. "Oh damnit—Yes, yes. The palace gives me a good idea, actually. Francis, many of your bosses have been named Louis, have they not? Many must've resided here."

Francis does not deign him with an answer.

"Ludwig. How does that name sound to you, Germany?" Gilbert coos, and the child actually smiles in another display of humanity. "Ludwig is a fine name for a nation like you."

It's never enough for Gilbert to just see the other bleed and leave in his wake the grime and sickening stench of violence. With a loud, final thud, the doors fall shut.

He always needs to rub in the salt of humiliation.


	2. Crown of the Gutter

**Here's the next part already, since this one and the next three chapters of this have already been completed a bit ago.  
Again, hope you enjoy! Feedback would be fantastic by the way *nudge nudge*  
**

* * *

 **1848  
March.**

The spring air tastes of revolution.

The heavy metallic scent of unrest and dissatisfaction cloys the air, and when Gilbert inhales it, it is like little flakes of rust in his lungs.

They have all felt it, ever since France lost his head first and then let that pesky little Corse rage across their continent there was a shift in their people – and he remembers that some of them wept in joy because their minds shifted with them, like a veil that was lifted from their eyes and allowed them to see themselves.  
But Francis had shown them early on that there is also a price to pay, and they all knew not a single of them would remain unscathed as their bosses fretted and tried to keep the tide back.  
And now they are all toppling over at once.

Italy, France, Denmark, Austria, Hungary. And the Confederation is growing restless as well.

Prussia has stood aside, tall and proud, and watched as one by one they caught the revolutionary fever, falling apart from the inside in strife.  
He must have gotten too close to them and breathed in the pollution, he has thought and when none of the humans have an eye on him, he has placed his gloved hand on his chest and felt the incessant buzzing beneath the fabric and the skin, a ball of nervous energy in his heart that waits for the impulse to release.  
He's wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it, but it was hard to ignore how clammy his hands suddenly felt when he realized that he too carries the seed in him.

He is no revolutionary.

He is no revolutionary, he has always believed in structure and in keeping power in the hands of the capable, in the hands of those who can handle him. He regards the events in the other countries with distaste for the chaos and the audacity of the governed to throw themselves into battle for something already proven to foster nothing but more dissatisfaction –  
he sneers at the revolutions.

So why, why is he standing on this square in Berlin, amidst the riots?

The noise is deafening, with gunshots ringing out and the people shouting in protest, in sheer rage and terror, a sickening cacophony. Usually Gilbert is not fazed by the mess, by barricades or blood, but it is another matter entirely when these are his people falling to their own army's bullets because now he doesn't know on what to focus. He stumbles when some panicked citizen shoves him aside without regard to who he is, slipping on the dirtied ground and trying to crawl to the seeming safety of the barricades. Like a trampled insect, desperate for survival and Gilbert feels sick with sympathy.  
Everything had been peaceful mere hours ago; protests, but peaceful protests. Nothing that doesn't go away if you wait just long enough. So what complete fool let that shot go? What godforsaken soul had made the crowd go mad? Didn't he know that crowds are single-minded and stupid beasts and that any provocation can set them off?

The Prussian stumbles again, his feet carrying him down a narrow and dirty alley where the smoke can't get to his head and the terrible taste leaves his mouth for at least a few inhales. Weakened limbs, he leans his head against the brick wall until his head has stopped pounding like it's going to explode and until the beast in his stomach has settled. He is too proud and dignified to vomit into some alley. He's above that!

But God, what do they want?

What do they want?, he asks himself bitterly as he takes deep breaths and finally feels steady enough to stand on his two feet easily. That terrible buzzing in his chest just won't subside, so he can't help but wonder if this is what it feels like for a human to have a heart attack – when your chest seizes up and there's this awful tingling, just that it is much worse than it has been for months.  
He curses his humanity, that little shard of him that puts him just out of reach of his people's desires; if he didn't have a mind of his own and were purely nation, then he'd know what they want from him! He wouldn't be sick in an alley!

Something about unity.

That's all he caught. The chaos gives him headaches that make it hard for him to focus.

Trying to keep his bruised ego intact, Gilbert eventually slinks out of his little hiding spot again to head for Frederick. Damn bastard should be able to explain just how things got so out of control so quickly, right? Means he has to return to the square, but he can handle that now. Can't let people think him a coward.

The pandemonium swells in his ears with each step closer to the fighting. He steps over a corpse, picking his way through the twisting human bodies. Some of them turn to stare at him for just a moment, the man with the silvery-blonde hair, red eyes, and expensive uniform. But then they just turn back to their little battles, allowing him to proceed.  
He's getting closer to the palace where Frederick must've cooped himself up, Gilbert realizes with a grin after a while, and he breaks into a little sprint through the crowds. Through the sweat and the blood, and he will be there and can demand answers for this, for this travesty—!

He lets out an undignified yelp when all of a sudden his foot catches on something and he falls to the ground, landing flat on his face on the cobblestone. He feels the gush of blood dripping from his nose when he raises his upper body to glare at whatever dared to get into his way.

For a second he falters because when he looks back he sees it was neither corpse nor object that had stopped him in his tracks, but a little bundle of a child that can't be older than four.  
It cries loudly as it tries to dodge the feet of the adults, shielding its head with its tiny chubby hands, and the Prussian is ready to feel sympathy for this victim as well, when the child pulls its hands away from its face and looks at him.

The buzzing falls silent for a second.

The little boy's blue eyes meet his with an unnatural calmness, and Prussia realizes that they are kin, and the feeling in his chest pours out white-hot.  
The noise around him turns into static in his ears as if he had entered the eye of a storm and he stares at the child. It's tiny. And barely of substance, barely here in this world. It's a miracle he managed to stumble over it.  
He's literally stumbled upon a nation among the dirt of a revolutionary uprising, and it fills him with dread when it dawns upon him what the appearance of this bundle means, for himself and the future of this people. And he knows suddenly that it is what his people desire.  
This little thing.

Germany.

Without another look, Gilbert pushes himself to his feet and runs.

.

.

.

"Report!"

The man at the desk flinches and after a moment of hesitation turns to meet his glare, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. He's sweating, and his fingernails bitten down.

"Gilbert…? It's curious, I thought—given that you are the nation, you of all people would know what is happening. And I do not approve of your language. I am still your king—"

"And I am your nation itself! And you will answer to me if I ask something of you, and you will do so without question or complaint for your nation!" Prussia demands, leaving no room for argument, and stares down the weak man before him until he falters in his seat and averts his gaze as the one defeated.

"The commotion outside is… they want reforms, Gilbert. You must have surely seen that the shots fired were but an accident. A fateful accident at an occasion we had had under control, there was nothing—"

"Get to the point of it! I know there is more to it than pretty little reforms and demands to us! Spit it out before I force it out of you, you undeserving worm! _Antworte_!" Gilbert roars and grabs his king by the front of his uniform, letting his despair get the best of him and dragging the frazzled man up with perfect ease despite the scrawny appearance of his body.

Frederick stammers around for a moment as if he thought he were above being physically attacked by his country, then finally confirms Prussia's fear.

The German people ask for a unified Germany _. Ein vereinigtes Deutschland_.

Under Prussian leadership, Frederick adds with a huff of anger and indignation once Gilbert lets go of him.

.

.

.

Prussia is no revolutionary, he thinks to himself bitterly when he hears what things Frederick promises the people of Berlin, all the reforms and little freedoms he will grant them as they proceed through the streets on the day of the 21st of March.  
The city mourns the people it sacrificed, so it is a delightfully quiet procession that allows Gilbert to let his dissatisfaction boil. This is why he despises revolutions. Dead people, hardly any gain. He knows that after this little procession, Frederick will meet up with his elite friends and deny anything he has promised in the morning, because that is the kind of man he is.

Gilbert fumbles with the bothersome little adornment on his uniform in the cursed colors that make him painfully remember blue eyes. Frederick made him wear it, to make a good impression on the shaken people. Red, black, and gold.  
He very well recalls Austria and his raving about the madness that gripped the people at the beginning of the century, of the wild demands and the flag they claimed for themselves under which they sought a "German unity". German unity! Pah!

What a terrifying thought.

They eventually come to a stop at the cemetery for proper mourning, and in the crowd Gilbert spots a little child, fighting its way to the first lines as nobody else seems to be able to see him yet.  
And over the drone of the voices, he hears the cry of "Bruder!"

.

.

.

Gilbert asks Frederick about the endeavor, the thing with the Germans and their offered crown, with clammy hands and the taste of rust on his tongue, and the king replies with a loud laugh.

He'd never pick up a crown from the gutter!

And for some reason, a sense of disappointment washes over the Prussian in the face of that rejection. It settles heavily, deep in his bones, among the twisted roots of what has sprouted from his heart in the past few months. Over the revolutions that rose and fell, those that he himself violently suppressed, earning him the resentment of his own citizens and the skepticism of his own brothers.  
He's grown tired of them, of those who always just meddled with him anyway. Stubborn Saxony. Austrian Bavaria. The whole goddamn lot of them.

So maybe he shouldn't fear what will come. The little idea that has grown from them.

He will have another brother.

* * *

 **1864  
November.**

The two figures by the ocean huddle deeper into their coats as they stare out to sea.

"Damn cold. I hate the Baltic sea" one of them mutters crabbily and raises his gloved hands to his face to breathe on them and capture the warmth of his own breath for just a few precious moments. His companion merely snorts in response and tugs at the collar of his coat to protect his neck against the bite of the freezing air. "Don't make such a face, Roderich. It doesn't make your mug any more pleasant to look at, and it's terribly unbecoming of a victor."

Roderich bristles both from the cold and the insult, and hastily pushes up his glasses that slipped down the bridge of his nose. "And you should practice what you preach some day. Some humility might make you less of a pain to be around, Gilbert."

Gilbert's red eyes narrow dangerously, however he chooses to remain silent. Not like this is the first time he's told this in the recent times. Technically he knows that he should not let it get to his head, that he should be the embodiment of his virtues, but the exhilaration of battle and subsequent victory still burns in his veins, warming him from the inside like a little sun.  
He almost forgot the feeling of this particular ecstasy, just how terribly sweet the fruit tastes, overpowering the lingering dirt and the dust of decades. And oh, how it got to his head.  
He's starting to feel like himself again, as if he awoke from a long slumber, rejuvenated by Danish blood so that he can't even feel the sustained wounds anymore.

The Austrian shoots him a suspicious glare when he giggles.

"Cut it out, Prussia. I am serious about this" he spits and scrunches up his nose, chin pushed forward a little. Then his eyes slide past Gilbert and the expression softens just the smallest bit with only a worried crease in his forehead remaining. "You'll be a terrible influence on him."

Gilbert follows his gaze and watches as the little boy there plays with the waves, running towards them and letting out a delighted peal of laughter whenever the ocean turns the tables again and pushes the waves back at him.  
He's growing, but still a child.

"Why's he even here" Roderich adds with a little sniff.

"Because the brat is completely crazy about beaches for some reason that is beyond me" the Prussian responds casually, frowning. "Besides, it's a fine beach when it's not fall, and keep in mind that this will belong to him too eventually. Best if he gets acquainted with it early on and learns to not get washed away by the tides."

Roderich seems to remain unconvinced of this explanation and shuffles his feet a little, his expression souring instantly when more sand gets onto his boots. It gets worse when the boy throws a glance over his shoulder towards them, the fresh wounds on his face and the stitches prominent even in the dim light of the early fall of evening. It's the price the child has to pay for gaining substance. For anyone to be able to see him.

The silence drags on, and for some reason Gilbert feels pressured to say something. He has no idea why, he has thought himself above pressure of speech, and yet. Maybe it is the drunken feeling of victory that makes him so inclined.  
So he voices a little… concern.

"Would you rather he were in your care then? Are you and Elizaveta considering having a proper little family?" he inquires, letting out a bark of a laugh when Roderich's face instantly turns an incredibly unflattering shade of pink. He stutters around vaguely indignant sounding words as he tries to regain his composure.  
"Don't be ridiculous!" he eventually forces out. "We have no such plans, and if we did that would be none of your business, Prussia!"

"It would be because that is my brother you would be stealing, and while you didn't make a complete fool of yourself in the war, you were only assisting me. It was I who crushed that Danish fool, and Germany knows to admire that. He knows that true power lies in military, not marriage. And if I may remind you, it was you who anguished about that terrible 'Germany unity' back then."

The Austrian lets out a sigh and runs his fingers through his disheveled hair. "You are being unfair and unkind, and while I expect nothing better from you, I would appreciate it if you could keep your mouth shut. The weather and temperature are irritating enough; I don't need your pathetic gloating too."

"Gloating! I am just ensuring _your_ ego doesn't swell to completely obnoxious levels again!" Gilbert mocks, feigning a dramatic expression of distress. After a moment he laughs again and gives Roderich a slap on the back that was just this side of threatening instead of friendly.  
"You'd do well to remember that."

"Would I? I feel like you are only goading me anyway. You know I am not happy with the new arrangement."

One of the most annoying traits of Roderich is how he always states the obvious in such a petulant manner that you would think he is the child.

Before Gilbert can slip in another threat to his temporary ally, the child returns to them; must've grown tired of his wave chasing and stomps towards them through the sand, swiping at the fringe of his unfortunate bowl cut.  
Despite the buried apprehension and downright dislike he has against the child, Gilbert feels the corners of his mouth twitch up into a smile. No. More of a smirk. Smirk sounds more accurate, yes.

"It's time we head back" the boy says as if it hadn't been him who kept them here out in the cold at the damn beach in the first place, but he's forgiven because he learns quickly to speak in a direct, authoritarian tone.  
Mostly forgiven; Gilbert still slaps his cheek and reprimands him. He is still the boy's superior.

"Address your brother properly, boy" he commands until Germany nods in defeat, then turns to Roderich and fixes his with a stare. "We will go back now, Austria. You may accompany us."

"How generous" the man grumbles and starts walking back towards civilization and shelter in an angry pace, quickly drawing ahead of them in his vigor to get away from them and the cold. He's just that terrible with confrontations.

"Do me a favor and never take him as your role model" Gilbert says to the boy who sticks closely to his side, absently reaching out to muss up the already messed up hair, earning him a stunned expression from the young thing.  
He quickly recovers, and has the audacity to smile at him. "I wouldn't. I have chosen my brother already. _Ich folge nur Preußen._ "

In a rush of brotherly affection, Gilbert stretches out his hand again to give the kid a playful punch, before he remembers that he cannot remember any of the other nations ever treating their younger siblings like that.  
From what he knows, they did other things, like embracing one another, exchanging affectionate gestures. Not the rough treatment of brothers who could never quite stand one another. Not even Brandenburg was ever really his friend.  
What a depressing revelation.

He hesitates in his movement, hand hanging in the air uselessly until he places it on the boy's shoulder, cursing the awkwardness of the gesture. Somebody like him should never be so unsure about anything he does, but here he is. It's goddamn awful. In nervousness, he licks his lips, tasting the coarse salt of the sea.  
His lungs no longer itch with rust, and what lingers in the air is the fresh scent not of revolution, but of glory.

They complete the rest of the track in silence.


	3. Intermezzo

**Hello again! :D  
**

 **This chapter is set in 1881, and is a bit of an interlude focused on fleshing out the characters and introducing my version of Feliciano.  
There will be some implied North Italy/Holy Roman Empire in here! **

* * *

For such an oddly theatrical man, his home is surprisingly plain.

When Feliciano thinks of Prussia, what he imagines are great pastures and a marvelous mansion, or a magnificent castle nestled in a dark forest in the mountains. Something monumental, at least, monumental as his legacy and the tales about him and impressive as only befitting of a man of such temperament.

But it is just a large house in the nicer parts of Berlin, sitting there at the end of the street barely distinguishable from the rest, leaving the Italian nearly disappointed when he finds his expectations are not met.  
Perhaps he should take it as a lesson to not always let his fantasies to get the best of him, he thinks, and quickly shrugs the feeling off before it can really take hold of him and dampen his mood.  
There's beauty in simplicity too, is there not!

With that thought in mind, he knocks.

The front door is ripped open the second his knuckles meet the polished wood, and Feliciano can't help but let out a little shriek and jump back. His heart pounds heavily and frantically in his chest as if trying to keep itself from going into cardiac arrest through sheer force of will.

"You are late, Feliciano."

With still trembling hands and nervous laughter the boy rubs the back of his neck and pulls up his shoulders in a defensive gesture when he meets the look of disdain from his host. "Ah, I apologize, you see I haven't been to Berlin before! Navigating the streets was a bit more complicated than anticipated and I ended up in the wrong district, so I had to ask humans to give me the proper directions and—"

Gilbert dismissively waves it off to stop the tangent before it has even really begun, instead stepping aside to let the Italian in. Feliciano lets out another laugh and follows the nonverbal invitation, internally thanking God for gifting him with a tongue that speaks without him needing to think about it when the situation requires it and with so many words that people grow annoyed before they can really question what he says.

He takes in the slightly more lavish interior of the small manor with interest while Gilbert strides ahead, stopping here and there to look at the portraits of the stern looking men and women on the walls and subsequently having to jog to catch up with his guide.  
They don't come across any people on the way with the unknown destination, and Feliciano wonders if Prussia lives here all on his own, not even with the barest amount of company.

"May I ask why you invited me?" he asks eventually to break the silence when Gilbert finally comes to a stop before one of the mysterious doors everywhere. There was nothing about a cause for invitation in Gilbert's letter, just a casual request for a meeting, but the man's single-mindedness and silence speak of something else. Curiously enough, the Prussian does not reply immediately and instead glances at the door and then back at him, suddenly intently scrutinizing him.  
"There is a… favor I have to ask of you. And I demand that you do not speak about it with anyone, understood?" the man says in a suspiciously hushed tone and a haunted look in his dark-ringed eyes once he is done with his inspection.  
Good-naturedly, Feliciano smiles and tries to lower his voice to the same conspiratory whisper of the other. "I assure you, nothing about this will leave this house."  
Part of him tells him to stop making promises so lightly, because sometimes those are terribly hard to keep.

Gilbert's tense posture barely relaxes at the words, the muscles of the body still taut like a bowstring ready to snap as if he can hear what Feliciano thinks, but his pale lips at least still pull into a strained lop-sided smile, revealing the glint of a sharp incisor.

"Excellent. I wouldn't want to declare war on you, Feliciano" he exclaims, tone dark with the implied threat and Feliciano catches himself shivering from the callousness of it.  
"The favor, Gilbert, what is it?" he blurts out, surprising himself with the forwardness and courage, relief stilling his shaking fingers when Prussia doesn't retaliate in response to the rudeness.

Gilbert reaches out and turns the door handle, halting before he pushes the door open more than a sliver. His stare is intense when he fixes Feliciano with it, but his voice is back to a soft, tired murmur. "Speak with him. I don't care what it is about, just engage in some conversation with him and then report to me when you are done."

So Prussia is not alone after all, is the boy's first thought.

"Don't get the wrong idea" Gilbert hisses just before Feliciano enters the room. "I don't normally let others spy on my brother."  
Feliciano doesn't know what to say to that, brain and tongue tied by nervousness and confusion, so he just smiles and heads into the room.

It's a study, he realizes when he takes the first step in, seeing the rows of shelves lining the walls of the narrow room, their boards bending and suffering under the weight of the books forced onto them without any space left. Feliciano has the suspicion that despite this, the books are all arranged in strict alphabetical order.  
At the end of the room stands a little desk beneath a window that seems to be covered in ink-stained papers and yet more books stacked on top of each other. With a start the Italian also realizes that the person sitting at the desk has long spotted him and is glowering at him from over his shoulder with piercing blue eyes.

"What have you been talking about with my brother?" he demands in a rough voice so different from when Feliciano last heard it and rises to his feet the next instant to approach him, making the Italian feel terribly cornered all of a sudden. The door behind him is already closed, and even if he notes that Ludwig is still shorter than him, there are traces of scars on his face, and the boy had obviously had a growth spurt and developed an awful temper to match that of his brother.  
Why couldn't the Germans just greet him nicely for once, Feliciano whines internally as he quickly raises his hands in front of his body to show that he means no harm and lets his mouth do the rest for him with a lengthy excuse.

The German stops in front of him and seems to contemplate whatever it was that he said, and Feliciano feels his heart beat painfully in his throat until the other's face smoothes over with wary acceptance.  
"Is that so" the teen says pensively and takes a step back to give his guest a little more breathing room. "And you are… Italy? Feliciano, right?"

"Feliciano, yes, that is me!" the Italian hastily agrees and overly enthusiastically nods his head, willing to hold on to any lifeline handed to him even at the risk of looking like a fool. "You have grown a lot in those ten years since I last saw you, almost like the humans do!"

With an apparent rush of pride the boy pushes back his shoulders and stands a little taller, cheeks a light pink. "Things are going well, so obviously my growth can go unhindered— …and I should greet you properly."  
With the decency to be flustered by his own rudeness, Ludwig finally stretches out his hand in stiff politeness and he visibly flinches when Feliciano grabs it with both hands and shakes it with a tight grip. The Italian pretends to not have seen it and gives the friendliest smile he can muster.

Wordlessly the German points him to a chair in the corner that Feliciano missed in his first inspection of the room and they each sit down on their respective chairs, Ludwig turning his so that they can face one another. From this position Feliciano has to blink against the light glaring through the window to see Ludwig's face.

"I was aware that my brother invited somebody, though he refrained from telling me who" Ludwig begins after an awkward pause and clears his throat. "I thought it odd he would have company at such a time."

"At such a time?" Feliciano immediately echoes and leans forward in his seat a little to try and get the sun out of his eyes, still catching how Ludwig in turn leans back and his eyes glide to the side in guilt.  
"I should not be speaking of it with you, I think" he replies, each word weighed and spoken in careful deliberation and obvious distrust, to which Feliciano can merely laugh. The noise seems to startle the boy, but the Italian cannot quell the sound because even if Ludwig has grown fast, he speaks like an insecure child and that is a strange comfort. Italy doesn't need to feel bad about having stayed a child for so long, about being hardly more than a teenager himself, if this nation is not better than him after all.

"I have promised your brother to not talk to anyone outside this house about what I may witness here, and he promptly threatened me with war should I break that promise, so you can safely talk to me about anything you want! Not even my boss will hear of anything!" he giggles and wipes away a stray tear leaking out of his eye, ignoring the confused gaze resting on him.  
"That is reassuring at least" the German responds dryly. He clasps his hands together and breathes a deep sigh, fixing Feliciano with his intense eyes again. "Gilbert and I just returned from a meeting with Austria and Russia."  
"How did it go?"  
Germany immediately pulls an unsightly grimace and he tenses. "Horrendously" he says in a clipped tone. "The two would not cease glaring at one another. Chancellor Bismarck compared them to two dogs on leashes, ready to tear out each other's throats if he were to release them, and I feel that aptly describes the situation."

Feliciano tries to picture it, Roderich and Ivan cooped up in a room together with their bosses arguing, and Ludwig and Gilbert somewhere in the middle of it with Bismarck trying to keep everything from turning into a bloodbath, and it wrings another laugh from him.  
Politics are a terrible mess, and he knows exactly why he always does his best to stay out of it.

"There is nothing amusing about that" Ludwig reprimands him, so for the sake of keeping the boy happy Feliciano feigns an apologetic expression and lowers his head.

"If they do not get along, why were you meeting at all?" he inquires as casually as possible once Germany relaxes once more, trying to not sound like he is attempting to gather information to pass them onto somebody as obviously the Germans are in some odd state of paranoia.  
"I will not get into the details, but essentially to ensure none of us would attack one another, should we pursue war with another country" Ludwig explains, pausing for a second, furrowing his brow. "Brother has been worried about the state of some things, and we are both kept busy by Bismarck. Hence my surprise over us hosting a guest."

Feliciano squints his eyes and even in the shadow cast by the sun behind the boy, he can make out the dark circles under the German's eyes.

"Understandable, though to me it sounds as though you are working yourself too hard and getting involved in things that don't require your attention! Perhaps you should take a little break, ne?" he suggests in sympathy, knowing he said the wrong thing the moment the words leave his mouth and Ludwig scowls.  
"We can't all take a break simply because we feel like it" he sneers, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Brother is raising me to keep the balance of power on the continent, and I refuse to disappoint him and make myself vulnerable to attacks just because I felt like taking a break. I will fulfill my duty without fail, and you'd do well to try and do the same for once!"

Feliciano flinches at the harsh words, his lips twisting into a nervous smile despite this when he mumbles and apology. And why shouldn't they? It's amusing, isn't it, that the boy is so easy to set off, that he's like a little version of Gilbert? The smile morphs into something genuine when he holds on to that thought.

Ludwig gets up and begins pacing, the floor boards creaking under his feet, posture perfectly straight and proud like the soldier he is in his uniform. Then he walks towards one of the shelves, reaching for one of the books and wrenching it out of its tight place with ease – no search necessary. The books have to be arranged in alphabetical order.

He weighs the small thing in his hands before he turns towards Feliciano. Awkwardly, he has his arms stretched out, holding out the book to the Italian and letting out a sigh when it is taken from him. It's a collection of poems by…, ah, it's Goethe.

Feliciano opens his mouth to thank Ludwig, even if he is not sure what he is to do with the works of a German poet, when the German manages to speak first.

"You are a blathering airhead. And you are quite irritating so far. But—" His cheeks color again with embarrassment. "I let my temper get to me. I know I cannot hold others to the same standards as me and that not everyone feels the same pressure of obligation. And I had vowed to make a better impression on you, should we meet."

Incredible, how the other manages to apologize for his behavior and yet further insult him in only three sentences.  
What was that about a better impression?

Ludwig taps onto the cover of the book with his pointer, a fond smile appearing on his face.

"Goethe was so impressed by you, your brother, and your country. The way he describes it has made me wish to visit ever since I had the consciousness to be familiar with his works. My brother is worried that you others will come to think of me as a barbarian with no culture because of his influence, because he forgets that my consciousness reaches back to before he decided to raise me, and due to all that I wanted to rather talk about things like this with you. Poetry. What your country is like. Not berate you on your personal failings, however aggravating they may appear to me."

For once, not even Feliciano can say anything, his tongue as silent and still as his mind. He blinks in stunned silence and peers up at Ludwig, whose cheeks are still a little red, and he feels tears prick at his own eyes. He swallows, but something seems to slip into his windpipe and lodges itself there in his chest.

"I can still tell you a lot about my country!" he exclaims delightfully, and Ludwig hurriedly takes his seat again and when Italy speaks, he listens attentively, taking notes on his papers, questioning, soaking up whatever Feliciano tells him and his face brightening until he hardly resembles the unkind teenage boy Feliciano met earlier.  
The words come very easily with an audience like this, so he allows his mind to drift off. The thing in his chest grows, obstructing his breathing, so he is forced to address it.  
It's a  
suspicion.  
Oh no—  
Worse, it's hope.

That's rather inconvenient, and Feliciano has never liked things that are promise difficulty and the danger of disappointment.

Eventually it seems that Ludwig's curiosity is sated and he begins to sort his notes, and while he works, the poison seizes the opportunity to spread in Feliciano rapidly, each heartbeat forcing it through his veins into every last part of his being until his chest threatens to burst with it like a fragile bubble.  
(The face is so familiar, he knows those blue eyes, the blonde hair—)

"Ludwig, I've wondered, how far back does your memory go?"

Ludwig stills in his motions and tilts his head to the side in thought.

"It's… it's a bit complicated. I don't believe I can adequately answer your question, I am afraid." Even if he has his back turned, it is obvious that he runs his fingertips over the scars studding the skin of his face.  
Roderich called him a ragdoll of Gilbert's design back in France behind Gilbert's back.

"That's fine!" Feliciano assures him with an artificial grin, his voice cracking and sounding strangely hysterical in his own ears. "Just— I am fine with any answer!"

 _Liar._ He knows exactly what kind of answer he desires.

"Ever since my other brothers have started to fade, I remember more. I have not only absorbed their territories, but also parts of their beings, it seems. I don't even know if all of them are still there, if they have simply retreated or… died. Or whatever fate befalls us nations when we become obsolete. So I don't even know if I can ask them for clarification, because it's all such a mess in my head. It's awful."

"I understand that, I think."

Ludwig's head snaps up, turning slightly to face his guest. "…Do you?"

"Remember when we met in France? What Gilbert said? I have been torn like you too, for a while at least. I have existed even before then so my situation is a little different, but I remember how it felt when I was whole again. It's difficult to sort through the memories and make sense of them, ne?"

There is a rustling of paper, and then the German turns around fully, his hands gripping the edge of his desk so tightly that his knuckles show white through the skin and for a second Feliciano believes he sees the shadow of another.

"It is" he murmurs. "It must be easier when you precede that period of being ripped apart. Though that is also what confuses me… I don't understand why I didn't exist before. It doesn't quite make sense."

The bubble expands, trembles—

"Doesn't make sense?"

"Yes. From what I remember, the idea of me already existed. The people called themselves German, and I remember it. So are these the memories I absorbed, or do others just not remember me?"

…and it. Bursts?

Feliciano doesn't know what he's feeling, but he knows his lungs seize up and his heart and stomach lurch in his body. A laugh bubbles up in his throat and he nearly jumps to his feet, he needs to restrain himself from launching himself at the other teen and shake him until he spills every little doubt and every piece of knowledge that will tell Italy if this is or isn't who he thinks it is, or just some weird twisted version of him—  
He honestly doesn't know if he is relieved or if he despairs.

Distractedly, Ludwig runs his hand over his slicked-back hair, the tension suddenly leaving him all at once. "Perhaps I should talk to the historians. They like to sort things like that out after all, even if Brother would laugh at me for needing to ask them for help. Shouldn't bring that topic up with him. …Is something the matter with you?"

"I am fine! I just realized it is getting late, and last time I overstayed my welcome I was literally thrown out! Not an experience I want to repeat!" Italy laughs it off and comes to stand on weak legs, knowing he gets away with it because Ludwig is endearingly socially and emotionally inept.

They say their goodbyes and Feliciano steps out alone into the hallway, closing the door behind him and taking a shuddering breath to calm himself, listening to the blood rushing in his ears as he waits for Gilbert to find him. God knows he didn't pay attention to the paths of the house and even if it's relatively small, he'd still get hopelessly lost in it.

The wait isn't long; Prussia must've been lying in wait like a patient cat waiting for the mouse to leave its hole.

Gilbert rounds the corner and claps his hand on Feliciano's shoulder, not even stopping in his stride and instead dragging him right with him down the corridor, which is a relief in the sense that it means that he barely needs to use his shaking legs.

"So! How was it!" the Prussian asks with affected cheer and camaraderie, his fingers digging painfully into the flesh and Feliciano hides the wince of pain with one of his smiles.

"It was very pleasant, you've raised him well! Though he's a little, mhm, unfriendly?" he reports, careful about his criticism in the presence of a very irritable and very doting older brother, whose light eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Is he? That is a good sign."  
"Good?"  
"Well, of course! It's good to see he takes his lessons to heart. Flattery and shallow words for politeness' sake are a waste of everyone's time. He should speak his mind directly, and if you think he is unkind and rude, then that means he's being honest and good."

Interesting logic.

"Oooh, that makes sense! Sorry!"

"You better be. And now don't distract from the issue at hand, tell me about how he's doing! What would you say is his mental state, hm?" Gilbert presses on, his grip turning vice-like, making Feliciano let out a little whine. The fingers continue to dig in. "Is he stable?"

"Oh yes, he's certainly stable! He seems fine to me, just fine! Stressed, maybe. Maybe you could make him work less?" Italy whimpers, failing to keep up the smile against the pain in his shoulder and a tear of relief runs down his cheek when Gilbert finally relents.  
There's more he could say, but somehow he doesn't feel like sharing this information with Gilbert. If the man wants that information, he'll have to get it himself. Even if that is perhaps selfish of him to want that to stay between the two of them.

"That's a relief, I suppose" Gilbert mutters, as if he were not even directing these words at Feliciano, his eyes focused on something the other cannot see. "Bismarck keeps saying he's unstable. That he's going to fall apart at the literal seams if we are not careful with the brat, and there's reforms we need to introduce to keep the damn socialists at bay which will take a toll on things, and maybe, just maybe I have been a little harsh on him because I need to ready him for what expects him, and maybe because some of my people call themselves German now and. Actually that is none of your business. Forget I said anything!"

"I heard nothing!" the teen says to appease the other man, relaxing further when Gilbert seems to accept that as reassurance. He smiles to give further comfort.  
But words don't erase what you've heard.

The Holy Roman Empire crumbled, and the German Empire may come undone at the seams.

Funny how history repeats itself.


	4. Cultured Swines

**In celebration of me finishing the newest chapter of the series, here's the next chapter for you guys!  
**

* * *

 **7th July, 1914**

A gunshot rings out, then another, and another, until the world momentarily drowns in the noise.

Shooting practice, a taste for the days to come.

Roderich bristles at the sight of the men on the field, laughing and celebrating with their comrades at a successful shot, clapping each other on the shoulder, fingers stained with the residue of gunpowder, eyes bright and alive with fervor.  
The fever has already spread to the military when there has been no declaration of war, not yet. Just rumors, talks of potential paths for them to walk with entirely unpredictable ends, and yet they are all already so eager to throw themselves into that dark unknown, empowered by the rifles in their hands and motivated by the thought of glory for their nation.

"Roderich, there you are!"

Ripped out of his reverie, the man whirls around at the sudden call of his name in a voice much softer than expected – but he knows that misplaced familiarity well, and he feels annoyance creep up on him when he makes the connection.

"Feliciano, what a surprise to meet you here" he responds calmly when facing the Italian, who greets him with one of his bright smiles and approaches him like an old friend, enthusiastically shaking the offered hand with the two of his. How he'd hoped he would not run into him when his nerves are already stretched to their limit, but fate has always had a cruel streak when it comes to him. Luck hasn't smiled on him in a long time.

"Ah! I didn't really plan a visit, but with the turn of events I thought perhaps my presence could be calming for Ludwig. Always nice to see a friendly face in trying times, right?" Feliciano explains unprompted, quickly sticking by Roderich's side like an excited dog as the other starts to walk towards the training soldiers and jumping whenever a shot sounds as if he's never seen such practice before. The act of innocence has always put the Austrian off.  
"And what brings you here, Roderich?"

"I am not obligated to disclose that information. You would be of more help if you told me where Ludwig is" Roderich retorts, his eyes scanning the groups of men for the one he is seeking. He can practically feel Feliciano pout at the rebuff, struggling to not sneer too obviously at the immature behavior.  
"I don't really know. We were conversing when there was a dispute among a group of soldiers. He went to settle the quarrel, but he did not return to me. He probably got wrapped up in the training again, so we'd do best to just stay here and await his return" comes the answer when the Italian realizes that Roderich will neither apologize for his rudeness nor react to the pouting, and the Austrian feels his eye twitch at the implication that Feliciano has been around long enough to make such statements.  
Of all the people to have an influence on Germany, Italy is among the last Austria can approve of. As sunny the young man may be and as flourishing his culture, there is always that little glint in his dark eyes that makes it impossible to trust him.

Feliciano begins to chat away about some inane events he's observed as linger on the periphery of the training camp, Roderich barely listening. His head swims in the summer heat, skin itching with sweat under the heavy fabrics of his uniform, and that incessant talking, interrupted only by gunshots, grating on his mind, chipping away at the remnants of his patience; and in the back of his head, that coiling snake of fear for the future.  
Roderich sighs in utmost relief when his eyes fall on a young blond man hurrying towards them, even if that man has his other brother in tow.

The blond quickens his pace when he too takes notice of them, an apologetic smile forming on his lips when he levels with them.  
"I apologize for my tardiness, I lost track of the time while I was with the soldiers" he says earnestly, taking off the cap of his uniform and running a hand over his hair to force the strands of hair that had rebelled against the severe hairstyle back again, the gesture obviously one of self-consciousness and embarrassment. There is even a light pink dusting the cheeks of Ludwig's face, a face that is beginning to lose the last traces of boyhood, the softness fading from the features more and more with each of their meetings. A sense of nostalgia takes hold of Roderich when he allows himself to linger on that thought, if one tainted by the resentment of their past and the uncertainty of their future.

"It is fine, Ludwig. I can hardly blame you for preparing your recruits, though I find it surprising that they take commands so readily from somebody in a navy uniform so far from the sea" he teases drily with a pointed look at the fancier uniform of the German. The redness in Ludwig's cheeks intensifies and he lets out a nervous chuckle, tugging at the collar. "You know Kaiser Wilhelm, he loves his navy so dearly that he insisted I wear these at any official appearance and any contact with human soldiers. I would rather blend in like you and Feliciano and Brother with your infantry uniforms, I already stick out, but these are the rules!"

As on cue, Gilbert appears like a predatory animal from behind his brother, wearing a grimace that could almost be constructed as a grin were it not so obviously fake. "The Austrian finally graces us with his presence!" he sneers, clapping Roderich on the shoulder with just a bit too much force, making him stumble and leaving him with his glasses slightly askew.  
"Brother!" Ludwig calls out in indignation when Roderich shoots the Prussian a glare as he tries to straighten his glasses again. "He's our ally and we have promised him our complete loyalty! Stop treating him like this, will you?"

Gilbert merely shrugs carelessly, greeting Feliciano instead when Ludwig lets out a frustrated sigh.  
"How nice for you that you overcame your grudge so quickly and accepted him as part of the family, but some of us don't change their allegiances so easily you know. Only somebody as young as you would be so foolish and make such outrageous promises" the Prussian mutters angrily when he turns back to them, and Roderich feels his muscles tense when he realizes in which direction the conversation is quickly heading. He casts a glance at Feliciano, who curiously peers back, and then at the two Germans.  
"Now that we are all in one place, shouldn't he…?" He makes a vague hand gesture towards the Italian and Ludwig promptly frowns at the insinuation.

"He is part of our alliance as well, wouldn't it only be fair if he stayed?"  
"He may be part of our alliance, but I'd rather we keep this between the three of us, Ludwig. View it as family business, if you will."

Feliciano resorts to pouting once more when Ludwig reluctantly sends him away, maybe check up on some of the soldiers, make himself useful while they talk and catch up. Eventually the Italian gives in and skips off towards the humans, the German staying behind with a somewhat guilty facial expression.

"Now, what is it that you wish to discuss with us?" he asks then, his tone slightly strained, and for another moment Roderich fiddles with his glasses as he tries to get his words in order.

"I wanted to confirm the current state of relations, for the most part" he finally says, choosing his words carefully with an eye on Gilbert, who practically glows with self-satisfaction.  
"Still no decision, then?" he gloats, stepping closer to sling his arm over Austria's shoulder and this time Germany does not interfere to call back his insufferable brother. "Not everyone jumps into war without sufficient thought first. Particularly in such a precarious situation" Roderich defends himself with a sniff, the heat of embarrassment flooding his neck and his cheeks when Gilbert merely laughs at him and even Ludwig doesn't look like he's buying into that.

"Naturally, because I am a bloodthirsty demon who lacks the mental capacity for thought! Just an unrefined barbarian, like in the good old days, right?" Gilbert snickers, the sound devoid of real mirth and rather dripping with the venom of old hatred and cultivated hurt and it takes Roderich quite some goodwill to not agree out of pure spite.  
"Just admit to your weakness, Austria. It is no shame when Hungary refuses to as much as meet with us."

"Elizaveta has her reservations towards the idea of war for good reason. She has always had more foresight than you" Roderich spits and pushes the Prussian away from him, feeling a spark of triumph when Gilbert's smirk falters at the sound of her name.  
But he quickly recovers. "If you agree with her, then why do you stand with us? And to 'confirm the current state of relations', no less?"

Roderich falls silent.

Elizaveta had witnessed his departure with nothing but grim silence, no words of goodbye spoken, no lover's chaste kiss on his cheek. She disapproves of the path he considers, and it tears at his heart to know that he has no choice but to go against her wishes.

"He is weak, we all know that already, Gilbert. No need to rub it in" Ludwig chides, and Roderich wonders if the young man realizes that he himself has done just that. He can only forgive it because he knows that the German doesn't speak these words with malicious intention. Or so he hopes, at least.  
Ludwig frowns slightly and fixes Roderich with a stare. "But it is becoming an issue. You must make your decision soon or people will catch on that this is no reaction to the assassination and the support for Serbia will grow. Each day that passes without action allows Russia and France to prepare for the war that is to come either way, and I'd rather we strike first. I can easily take on one of them, but if they unite and your indecisiveness delays my actions, it will get tough. I will support you no matter what you may decide for, but I advise you to pick war."

War war war war, there it is again, the demand for war. Like the buzzing of a mosquito at night that drills itself into your mind and drives any thought of sleep away.

"Elizaveta says it may as well spiral into a Weltkrieg, boy. Take it seriously, will you!" Roderich scolds hotly, Gilbert's satisfaction rising with what he must see as an indirect admission of defeat. Ludwig straightens his back and the boyish smile disappears from his face at last as he assumes the proper stance of little Prussian war trophy he is.  
"I am taking this seriously, Roderich. I know this may mean general war for us, but war is about resources and skill, and I possess both in spades. Brother has trained me well for a case like this. It is you who comes crawling to me for support because you lack the strength you once held; I feel you have lost the right to address me as a child, as somebody inferior to you."

Roderich shivers at the coldness in these words and he gulps. He has hoped, hoped so much that over the past decades his influence could have done anything to change the German's nature, but in the ominous light of the dawn of war it shows that Gilbert has truly raised Ludwig in his own image. A man too confident in his skill of killing and dying alike, but mixed with the terrible fallacy of inexperience and immature overestimation.

Gilbert looks onto his brother with fondness. "You're an immature brat, that's why you get to talk like that. But do keep in mind that this is your first proper war as a unified nation. Just because you came into this world through iron and blood does not mean you can match my success! You'll have to rely on me still" he reprimands almost playfully, laughing freely when Ludwig hunches over in shame of having spoken so arrogantly.

The Prussian's tone turns serious only for a moment, the faintest hint of actual fear in his face when he turns to meet Roderich's eye. "But our success also hinges on your decision, Austria. Make it quickly if you don't want to doom all of us. Wait too long and Ivan will manage to get himself together and crush us with Francis' aid from the west. _Vergiss' das nicht. Du kannst dir keinen Fehler erlauben_."

Fear makes Gilbert appear so much more human, and that means for Roderich that the pressure of responsibility on his shoulders grows even heavier; is this the pain Atlas endured, with the weight of the heavens on his back? Roderich wonders.  
In the end, it is the humans who will decide, but he knows his words will count.

"I will keep it in mind. But we may try the ultimatum first. Serbia would never accept it, and I would be left to be seen as the generous seeker of peace, and perhaps then things can be solved so much more smoothly" he eventually says, knowing that this is hardly satisfying for his allies, but it will have to do.

Another gun fires, and the ringing in Roderich's ears for a moment sounds like Prussia's glory.

.

.

 **End of October, 1918**

Roderich's back aches from the bruises and the hole torn into the flesh and muscle by the Italian bullet, but still he drags himself through his battered house.  
The continent is nothing but scarred earth and bloodied men, and he has received news that Ludwig is doing no better at least. There's talks of a revolution, one that will strip him and Gilbert of their beloved royal status after everything, and last Roderich saw him, the boy was missing some fingers. He is so quiet these days, finally sounding as humble as he should be.

It doesn't do much to satisfy Roderich though he realizes bitterly, because even if the boy is as defeated as he is, as unsure of his future for himself and his brother, he  
at least _has_ his brother.

While Roderich sits alone in his house that is too big for one person, his face buried in his injured hands, his glasses painfully digging into his skin.


	5. Discomfort of Sympathy

**Yoo! Soon we're all caught up here with my updates on my blog~  
**

 **Feedback would be awesome, and I hope you'll enjoy the read!**

* * *

 **July, 1923**

Dust rises whenever his polished shoes hit the ground, the summer heat having scorched anything it touched the day before.

The man hurries through the streets, and even if the stale air is still breathable and the suit not yet too stuffy and warm thanks to the early hour of the day, he takes off his suit jacket, lets it hang over his arm after he has pushed up the sleeves of his shirt.  
Just last month the British pest had moaned about the terrible weather and the cold that plagued him and his colleagues, and now? Now the heat has properly set in and Alfred would give a lot for a nice little shower of rain – the few forlorn faces he passes on his way tells him he is not the only one.

He risks another glance at his watch and a curse slips over his lips as he breaks out into a light jog. Should've asked the driver to get him to the other side of town right away instead of letting himself believe that he would manage to take a nice little stroll through the area and still be on time. He'll honestly need to have a little word with his past self, he thinks grimly as he quickly rounds the corner and takes a heavy sigh of relief when the name on the street sign finally matches the address he was given.  
Before he proceeds, the man hastily puts the suit jacket back on because even if the fabric is wrinkled now it's only polite, brushes through his bangs with his fingers for lack of comb on hand, rights the glasses that have slipped down a little on the sweaty skin of his nose.  
Appear presentable and on time, was the only somewhat useful advice Arthur had given him. Francis had been completely unhelpful in his spite and gloating, and the letters he had exchanged with Ludwig himself had been very curt and mostly concerned with setting up this little meeting. And their one previous meeting had been more of a clash, confined to the tumult of desperate gunfire where people a stripped to their core, but you don't exactly learn how to converse with them politely under these circumstances.

So he is going into this with little idea of what to expect.

In hindsight, perhaps not the cleverest decision of his life.

He's fashionably late, he decides when he glances at his watch, and then strides down the street to the little square in front of an old crumbling church, a pleasant smile blooming on his face when he discovers the figure of the one he is seeking.  
The blond man turns around, and the new arrival waves cheerfully.

"Ludwig! A pleasure to finally meet you!" he exclaims loudly, immediately sticking out his hand for a handshake, inwardly wincing when the other's grip nearly pulverizes the bones of that hand.  
"Alfred. Good to see you. I was afraid you would be running much too late" the man returns the greeting a lot less enthusiastically and with an almost audacious casual rudeness, a frown marring his already harsh features when he finally releases Alfred.

"Mhm, the roads here aren't so well suited for automobiles, and then the driver dropped me off on the other side of town. Took a bit for me to find this place" the American grumbles. He allows himself to take in the figure of the other, the first chance he has for this in years.  
He notices instantly that Ludwig isn't dressed in a drab suit like him, having opted instead for a laborer's work clothes as if in solidarity with the Russian. Even has the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. So much for impeccable appearance; from the few glimpses Alfred has had of his German host, he at least always had his hair neatly slicked back, but now there isn't even that. The bangs are simply brushed to the side, hardly styled, while Alfred had battled with his hair at 5 in the morning just to get it to obey him.  
Obviously, Ludwig isn't taking this meeting seriously at all.  
And okay, it—is supposed to not be one of these stiff official occasions where the humans make the decisions and their nations just sit around and wait for the verdict, and instead it should be a friendly outing, a chance for him to get to know Ludwig a little.  
But he still expected… more. Somehow. Francis and Arthur had made him out to be more than this— more than a grumpy man who spits on base politeness and looks like any pedestrian on these dead streets.

How disappointing.

"How are you? And if I may ask…why are you here and not in Berlin with your brother?" Alfred inquires with a slight strain on his smile, trying to simply ignore the emotion and keep an open mind about this, even if his hopes are dwindling faster than anticipated.  
"Things are awful, if it has escaped your notice; the country is overflowing with dissatisfaction. Since our presence may be uplifting for the people, even if they do not know what we are, I decided to retreat to towns such as this one for the duration of the crisis. Gilbert can handle the men in Berlin on his own. I'd rather feel sorry for the politicians than my brother anyway" Ludwig responds, his frown deepening further as he stares off into the distance and his tone leaving Alfred a bit at a loss for words and terribly uncomfortable.  
He's never been very adept at handling the negative mental states of others; their frowns and tears always make him feel too put on the spot, too pressured to do and say all the right soothing things, the atmosphere becomes much too stifling, and in the bright burn of truth he knows that the discomfort he experiences tends to outweigh whatever sympathies he might have held otherwise.  
And this is much too heavy for how he imagined today to go.

"Ah, right, the crisis…" he echoes lamely thus, fiddling with a loose thread on the edge of his suit's sleeve. His blue eyes dart across the square, to see if not perhaps there is anything of interest here that can keep the swell of discomfort in his chest at bay.  
But everyone has already left the comfort of home for work; nobody comes to the church at this hour, so the noose around Alfred's neck tightens.

"Do you even know what I am referring to?"

"Naturally! The news of a financial crisis in the very heart of Europe reaches even my boss, Ludwig!" he replies maybe a little too quickly as he immediately senses the glare of Ludwig's eyes on him. Intense eyes, Ludwig has there. The dark circles under his eyes make it worse.  
"It's hyperinflation, America" his companion says sharply, wandering towards a little bench to the side of the square underneath a tree.  
"Still finance" Alfred mutters with a small pout when he takes his seat next to the German, grateful for the little bit of shadow as the temperatures are beginning to rise. He feels like he's being roasted in his suit. "Financial crisis is certainly applicable a term."

"It is" Ludwig relents with a surprising lack of resistance, words tinged instead with a bitterness that seeps into every of the man's movements, even when he only picks at his cuticles. "But I want you to understand what exactly this means. If you care to."

"You know, it's not a fantastic strategy to imply you believe the other person doesn't care, when that person is simply trying to be a friend, Ludwig. Because I _do_ care to understand, and I _am_ just trying to be a friend!"

Ludwig has the decency to look guilt for a moment at that, biting his cracked bottom lip, averting his eyes. A drop of blood wells to the surface at the ragged skin around his nails.

A wry smile tugs at the German's lips, a glint of hostility still lingering in his sunken blue eyes when he looks at him again. "I have difficulty believing that."

"Have I given you reason to question my sincerity?" Alfred says saccharine-sweetly and meets the gaze head-on, no more trepidation plaguing him now that it has been revealed to him that Germany is not the impressive powerhouse his boss talks of, not the shadow monsters on the wall like Francis claimed, not the madman he remembers from the bloodied fields.  
He's only a bitter man.  
In a financial crisis— excuse him,  
stuck with _hyperinflation_.  
And it's sad because he was excited for this, he really does want to befriend this sorry excuse for a nation, this nation that is young as he is.

"Oh, I don't know!" Ludwig scoffs and his mouth twitches as if he is holding back a snarl, and the bleeding hands ball into fists as his body tenses in anger, curling in on itself slightly. "Your boss has worked out that wretched treaty with them! Millions are dead and you have blamed it all too readily on me and my brother, and now when everything is already falling apart you come to pick at the leftovers like godforsaken vultures!"

Ludwig's face twists for a second in deep hurt, which for some reason makes him look so much younger. Almost like a young adult who has just barely reached that status, and something about that is relatable. However the expression quickly disappears as Ludwig smoothes it over with a deadpan face, sealing the sea of emotion and keeping it from sight.

"Since you weren't present, you may not be aware but I was the one who argued we should be more lenient! It was I who reined Francis in when he got too aggressive! And…nobody blames solely you anymore, they all played a part" Alfred presses with the attempt to retain a light conversational tone, all the while edging closer to Ludwig, who instantly tries to scoot away from him, stopped only by then armrest of the bench. It does not fit him after all to be too grave, Ludwig is already playing that part perfectly anyway.  
"Of course. My economy is too valuable to have it be mismanaged by a Frenchman" Ludwig states drily, mouth again twitching into a sneer briefly. "And not even that worked out for you because of the state of finances. But no matter, your people have found a way."

"Why are you making it so difficult for me?" Alfred whines, giving up the fight against the elements, taking off his hat and shrugging out of his suit jacket once more. The German flinches when Alfred nearly hits him with his sharp elbow.

"I am not making it difficult on purpose. You are simply not very convincing, Alfred" Ludwig says, finally giving something resembling a smile, if only his sharp incisor didn't show like that. His facial expressions are all pretty unsettling, frown and smile alike.  
"What do you want me to do then? I am really trying, Ludwig! Young nations like you and I should be sticking together against all these old men and women and not bicker about things that I can't control in the first place!"  
"As I have stated before, I struggle to believe that this is really what your intention is. I may not know you well, but what you have shown so far is that you are a man overly concerned with the appearance of things and his own personal gain. … I have been told that I am too quick to judge, but in these times there isn't anyone besides Gilbert who I can put my trust into. Least of all a nation that has been complicit in bringing about this misery for my people."  
"You will simply have to trust me, because I can assure you that my people and I have no interest in seeing you in such a pathetic state."

Ludwig chuckles at that and gestures to the street from which Alfred had come, either sides of it lined with the fancier houses of the neighborhood, the pretty facades stinging in the American's eyes as the sunlight hits them.  
"All of these are owned by Americans. They rejoice at the cheap prices at which they can buy estates here, because the people will accept about any amount of payment by this point as long as it's in dollars. You should keep an eye on your wallet in places like these because not everyone is so virtuous anymore."

Alfred clicks his tongue, annoyance gnawing at the back of his mind. "So you are angry that my people are not bastions of virtue? I don't think any of us can claim that. Obviously not even you."

Wordlessly Ludwig begins to dig through his pockets and Alfred's breath stills for a second when he realizes that what the other is procuring there is a bundle of money, the bills crumpled from having been carried around carelessly like that.  
Warily the American takes one of the papers offered and lets out a loud whistle when he sees the number printed upon it. "Five billion mark!"  
"And completely useless."  
"Completely?"  
"Utterly. The children use bundles of these as blocks for playing because they cannot afford actual toys with this currency. Others use them for heating. The workers receive their payment in the mornings so they may buy food before the value falls even more, and by now they are using wheelbarrows to cart around all the useless money."  
"Wheelbarrows, now that sounds severe! How much does simple bread cost then?"

Ludwig simply shrugs, ripping further at his skin. "I don't know. I haven't been eating since the likes of us can survive without, and the prices change so quickly. Could be trillions by now."

"Oooh! Oh, I get it now! You are an intelligent man, Ludwig, trying to appeal to my empathy to guilt-trip me!" Alfred exclaims and claps his hands together, crushing the bank note, as he shoots the other a stern look that contrasts with his light tone and the seemingly easy smile on his lips.  
"Guilt-tripping—Are you really so stupid and distasteful, or are you merely pretending in order to rob me of my last nerves!" the German barks, starting to lean in threateningly, and even if Alfred knows that he won't be harmed, the sight is still uncomfortable enough to drown out the sting of insult.

"I think I made it clear enough that I expect nothing from you and least of all desire your pity! All I asked for is _understanding_ for what that treaty has been doing to these people, and if you are so interested in friendship with me, why can you extend not even that to me and instead accuse me of stooping so low!"

Alfred bites his lip, the scorching sun on his skin forgotten for the moment when his blood runs cold at the harsh words and feeling uncharacteristically humbled by the rawness of them.  
His throat feels tight again, his head starting to pound as an omen of the migraine to come. He hates to be the one to be left to take care of those dealing with hurt and guilt and resentment, he already hated that with Francis and Arthur when they appealed to him, and he hates to be seen through. By such a sorry excuse for a nation whom he's only talked to today of all people.  
Somehow ironic, but irony was always Arthur's thing and not Alfred's.

Dust rises when he aimlessly kicks his legs. Next to him, Ludwig has his head turned to the side to hide whatever he is feeling now.

"This was botched from the beginning. Started off on the wrong leg, so to speak. Perhaps we should start over. What do you say, Germany?"  
"Perhaps we should."  
"I will have you know though that I have some money and cigarettes on me and am willing to share."  
"Give those to the humans, not me. I have no use for these things."

The American sighs, though the smile returns to touch his lips. "See! You really are making it difficult for me! Let me change the topic then. Gilbert has known me, in the past. I'd… like to know what he has told you about me, because I am beginning to believe that his words have warped your perception of me."

For the very first time, Ludwig's eyes crinkle in actual amusement, and a rough laugh rings out. "He told me about how you and your soldiers were an unhygienic mess, devoid of proper discipline and the basic understanding of how to wash and where not to piss."

Alfred's face promptly colors red-

"Your brother is quite the liar, Ludwig! He just disapproves of anything that differs from him, you see, just like you."

"He does not, that is where your perception is warped! He's truly embracing this whole democracy experiment and if we were not in this _financial crisis_ with Francis growling at us like a spoiled lapdog from the west, I believe he would be quite content with the state of things."

How curious, America thinks, that even that old Prussian is changing.  
And maybe that German isn't such a horrible disappointment after all either, at least enough to keep his interest for longer than five minutes, and that's more than some others have managed. Just got to tiptoe around finances and hyperinflations and stacks of money and vultures of real estate.

They remain seated on their little bench while the sun burns in the sky, until Alfred decides he has enough of it and drags Ludwig somewhere where he can get a drink, because there are only two states in which a man is truly honest. They have already met in battle, so now all that is left to knowing each other is to get intoxicated together.

.

.

.

"It is unfair, entirely unfair… Why are you, you still so—sober? Did Gilbert raise you on beer?"


	6. Under the Sun - Enablers

**I finally finished the WWII-arc over on my blog, sooooo now we're getting started on it over here!**

 **I have tried to present this subject with appropriate sensitivity; this arc will span 3 chapters which will also be among the longest. This one is the "introduction" and I will already raise the rating to M because of things to come. Specific warnings will be issued at the beginning of the next chapter, please be mindful of those!  
**

 **Reviews would be fantastic!**

* * *

 **23rd March, 1933**

"Brown looks terrible on you."

Ludwig tugs at the collar of his slightly too tight shirt and gives him a forced smile. "It does, indeed. Neither does it fit you."

Gilbert steps next to his brother to see his reflection in the mirror in the corner of the room and he sneers at the sight that greets him. Only in part out of vanity.  
Just three years ago he had outlawed this damn thing, and yet here he stands, dressed in that hideous uniform for today's farce of a debate. His fingers twitch with the desire to rip off the offensive fabric, the desire to choke of the one responsible for putting him into such an outfit. Uselessly his hands ball into fists with nobody to take it out on. His brother doesn't deserve it, not yet.

"We'll have to get used to these, I'm afraid" says Ludwig as he grimaces at his mirror image. "And before you scold me: I don't like this any more than you do. But we must do what we are told."  
"It would still be nice if you at least showed some more resistance" Gilbert hisses petulantly, picking up the red armband that lies on the table next to the mirror and with half a mind to throw it out of the window.  
But as much as he hates it, Ludwig is right.  
He pulls the armband on and reluctantly secures it in its place while his brother does the same.

"What would I gain from that?" Ludwig mutters as they look at each other, searching for anything out of place, any sign of rebellion. Ludwig's gaze more scrutinizing, more frantic, because he can get away with more than his rebellious albino brother to the East can. "Things are decided. My resistance as an individual means nothing, and yours will get you locked up if you continue in this manner."

Gilbert swallows, despondently glaring at the black symbol on his armband. Neither of them has felt quite like themselves since that thing appeared, as the masses turn to look at it with awe. Makes him sick to just look at it, and it makes him even sicker to know that some part of him is not as resistant as he'd like it to be.  
It leaves him restless and upset with nowhere to direct this fear and rage.

"Let them lock me up then! Not much left they can do to me, is there!" he responds and plays with the top button of his outfit, and the other simply sighs as if he were dealing with the tantrum of a child. Ludwig doesn't really realize how condescending he can be without meaning to. "Brother, I don't want—"  
"This isn't about what you want, Ludwig. You were not the one who had his government usurped! I have lost my independence! Do you even understand what that means for me?!" Gilbert spits, overwhelmed by his frustration and the nervous energy tingling in his limbs like electricity, and he tightly grabs his brother by the front of his shirt and drags him down.  
When did Ludwig become taller than him? When did his scars fade?  
Doesn't matter.  
Angrily his brother pulls at his hands to release himself, but Gilbert does not relent, burying his boney fingers deeper in the hated brown fabric.

"Don't you get it, Gilbert! This debate today, that law— that will be my _Putsch_ , that will be the usurping of my government! We are in the same boat here, and I frankly feel insulted that you'd think I would honestly try to get rid of you! You are my brother!" Ludwig exclaims, trying to make Gilbert's finger unfurl to no avail, and Gilbert lets out a laugh tinged with hysteria, voice breaking at the high pitch.  
"It's not something that is up to you, Ludwig. If you don't find some way to undo this somehow, then you will one day devour me like the others, whether you mean to or not. So forgive me that I'm not overjoyed about us being grouped together like this."

The other's hands still at these words, guilt flashing across his features at once and a sense of regret tugs at Gilbert's heart at the sight.  
As he's said himself, this isn't exactly Ludwig's fault.  
The fight leaves his body at once and he lets go of his brother, feeling dizzy and awful and shaky. His fingers are trembling pathetically, so he clasps his hands together, but he still feels the once foreign sensation of anxiety rattling his bones.

After a moment of hesitation and with a fair measure of awkwardness, Ludwig puts his arms around him in an embrace. The short-lived pressure of his arms is soothing but it cannot stamp out the nest in the Prussian's chest of anxious spiders that seem to crawl beneath his skin.  
Ludwig puts his hand on his shoulder when he lets go, his expression pinched in worry despite the upwards curl of his lips.

"We will make it out of this somehow. The law will only be in effect for four years, and perhaps by then the hearts of the people will have placed their allegiance elsewhere already" he says in a tone that Gilbert knows is supposed to be reassuring, but it rings hollow and naïve in his ears.

They straighten their uniforms one last time before they leave the building and head for the opera.

"They are illegal, you know. Have been the entire time. Against the constitution."

"I know Gilbert. We told Reichskanzler Brüning, and nothing was done. And once the law is passed, they _will_ be legal."

.

.

.

Their steps echo within the opera hall as they flank the podium, with not even a careless murmur to cover up the sound as everyone's eyes rest on them for this brief moment.

The air hums with a restless sense of anticipation for what is to come, for the reason of their gathering, and Gilbert feels sick under the weight of their gazes.  
What forces the burn of bile up his throat is not anxiety anymore; it's the words of protest that clog in his windpipe just before the vocal cords because his tongue refuses to speak them, silencing him. It's nearly painful; he'd breathe a sigh of relief when the tension finally releases loudly in the first traitorous word with that foreign inflection, that is, if the speech didn't make him clench his jaw in distaste until it hurts.

He does his best not to listen, to not let his eye linger on the dogs of the SA and on the politicians in the ranks who know that this debate is a farce. Only a few of them sit there with grim expressions alike the one he wears, and only they receive his sympathy in this mess.  
There's a certain comfort of knowing that they still exist.

The man's speech is interrupted by clapping and cheers every once in a while, and Gilbert takes these moments to break out of his rigid posture to throw a glance over to his brother. Ludwig's face is a stone-cold mask of indifference, but his eyes betray him as they always have.

The debate drags on as Gilbert's limbs grow heavy, and the voice of reason among the criminals is met with ridicule, the noise of an entirely twisted nature. But a sentence clearly stands out, immediately sticking to Gilbert's mind like an ominous mantra, striking his core.

They continue to ricochet in the arena of his skull as that despicable man gives another speech and finally steps down in the drowning sea of cheers. He turns to Ludwig, and Gilbert hates the way his brother falls silent in the presence of that human, and he hates the way the human looks at his brother.  
With a fanatic glint of fascination and desire, a sense of awe in the face of what he views as the pinnacle of the human race, like he owns him.  
Gilbert wishes his brother didn't look the way he does, perhaps more Slavic, to spit on that man with his very appearance, and his eyes drift up to the blood-red banners behind him.

The echo still sounds in his ears.

 _Kein Ermächtigungsgesetz gibt Ihnen die Macht, Ideen, die ewig und unzerstörbar sind, zu vernichten._

.

.

.

 **November 1936**

Things move quickly from there, as if the country was waiting for this all along. Every piece fits into a place that was made for it.

Masses are mindless beasts, and that man knows how to put them on a leash and control the monster, knowing when to rein in and when to feed their hatred, knows the right scapegoats and the right heroes. And he has to admit that he feels the pull as well.  
It bleeds into everything, each section of administration and personal life, down to every last kindergarten teacher and housewife, the tainted blood of the destroyed democracy that Gilbert had grown to love once upon a time. Now he steps over its shambles, and he doesn't really know what to feel as his sense of self melts and runs through his fingers.  
His feelings are starting to blend together, and the time of hardship and freedom seems distant now, but sometimes he recalls that burning hatred of his for what he's become. It's buried deep within, where he once locked the love for his brother, together with the silent cry of a people that he is abandoning.

People stop in their tracks to watch him as he strides down the street, no longer with the polite hostility he used to be met with – sickly looking, strangely foreign, albino, red eyes like a demon – because now they see the Nazi uniform he is clad in.  
Black, no longer brown.

Gilbert looks handsome for once, but Ludwig looks absolutely impeccable in it.

He was used as a model when they first drafted a design. Ludwig had given him that uneasy smile, explaining the situation with his body tensing in discomfort at the situation. He still let it happen, knowing that he is but a poster-boy. They wanted uniforms that look good on healthy blond men, so who would be more suited as a model than the nation itself?

'But look, brother!' he had said with a sudden spark of joy in his eyes and tugged at the pant leg of his shorts, revealing the pale skin of his left thigh, and the crashing waves of terror that overcame Gilbert are still very fresh in his mind.  
The last scar had faded. Gilbert remembered how when Ludwig was a child, he sometimes walked with a cane because the left leg was often in danger of falling off, and when it did, Ludwig cried and Gilbert patiently sewed it back on. But no more.

Germany was whole, and Prussia's feelings were a horrifying mix of pride and fear.

He should not dwell on that. He should focus on business.

So Gilbert heads towards the building where his brother and their guests are waiting for him.

Feliciano greets him with a quick hug this time, and Kiku gives him the most reserved greeting he has ever received, but none of that really touches him.  
He no longer feels like a participant, and part of him boils with resentment at that. He's an observer, as he watches his brother talk to his new allies, all three of them with that glint of hunger in their eyes.  
They are all infested with a parasite that poisons their systems, all of them. Gilbert included. There are no more spiders left in his heart, nothing crawling under his skin in his waking nightmare, just a feverish sheen over his eyes, the rushing of pure blood in his ears, and a sun in his chest that makes him kiss his mirror image.

The resentment still screams at him, the words of Wels still cling to his mind, but it's so difficult to despise himself or Ludwig when he feels so powerful. So what if it comes at the prize of what makes him sick anyway?  
Maybe that man was right all along—  
No no, he needs to remind himself, it's the parasite, it's the parasite, and parasites can't right—

Gilbert tries his best to smile for the camera when Feliciano insists they take a picture to cement this friendship, but there's a bad taste in his mouth from his straying thoughts.  
He wonders if that happens to them too.

He waits until the guests have retired to grab Ludwig by the arm and drag him outside into the cold night air.

The heels of their boots are like exploding shells in the empty streets as they walk past the houses decorated with the red banners, swastika glaring down on them like an evil eye, so Gilbert pulls some more at the arm until they tumble down the smaller alleys where they may be on their own. There is nothing to fear, you cannot kill a nation for disobedience or treason, but still the Prussian feels he cannot speak when the ears of the other Nazis are around.

"Brother, do you think it is so clever to bring Feliciano into this?" is the first question he asks at Ludwig's confused look, and in response the German runs his hand over his slicked back hair, laughing.  
"He has changed, like we have. You must have noticed it too. Even if he will never be on our level and tried to keep us away from Roderich, I don't think he will betray us again. He is too much of a coward for that, this time that will work in our favor."

Skepticism still eats through the goodwill the Prussian feels for their Italian ally, but he is willing to let that rest for now. Let Feliciano aim his bullets at them again if he must: there are more burning questions on Gilbert's mind, questions that have lied dormant for long and he is afraid that if he doesn't speak now, he never will.  
When has he become that kind of person, the one who can only speak in the safety of shrouded alleys—

"We really have changed, haven't we?" he says, his own voice sounding like that of a scared child in their awful meekness, and for the first time in months the disgustingly sunny face Ludwig wears crumbles before his eyes, like a mask that finally falls.  
"We have" Ludwig admits in a whisper of resignation.

The words hang in the air, a heavy and absolute verdict.

"You know what they are doing with them. Where they take them."  
"We both know."  
"How do you feel about it?"  
"Why don't you tell me how you feel about it?"

Ludwig's eyes bore into his challenging, lines of exhaustion and despair dug into the skin beneath them, and Gilbert grits his teeth.

"It hurts" he admits, trying to put that unfathomable void of fear in his chest into words, and he feels relieved when Ludwig nods in agreement, even if hesitantly.

"It hurts, but—"

Gilbert's words falter and he sees the tired, sad smile of his brother, the glint in his eyes one of fever and love. The German buries his face in his hands for a moment, and then through the gaps of his fingers he speaks with a crooked smile.  
"But we just feel too good. It just feels so good."  
"Better than in 1914."  
"It's not even _comparable_."  
"How…"  
"How can we hate ourselves if it feels so good? If we are so loved? How can we think we are anything less than those around us when everyone recognizes us as superior?"  
"Parasite or not. It feels like power."

How relieving to know for Gilbert that he is not the only one of them that is turning into a monster. The reverence with which they utter these words is a testament to their corruption, even if there's still the taint of doubt on it that makes the banners and flags and uniforms look grotesque to him through his cracked lens.  
A part of Gilbert wants to hold on to it, to hold on to that shred of morality, but the words in his head tell him that rejecting it is ultimate morality instead, and he knows eventually these doubts will slip from him just like his self.

They remain in that alley in the face of their depravity, and when Gilbert lifts his head and smells the air, he smells gunpowder.

Not long, and the peace will break. Soon, please, Gilbert prays.

Let the blood of the enemy and the glory of their victory wash away the doubts and leave them cleansed of the darkness in their hearts.  
War he knows.  
Killing and dying he knows.  
It is what he is good for, it is the justification for his existence.

The justification for what Ludwig and him have become.


	7. Under the Sun

**I've decided to post the next chapter already and beware, in this chapter this stories earns its M rating. I hope you will find this to be an interesting read and I'd make me very happy if you left some feedback.  
**

 **Warnings for: Nazi Germany-related themes, death, blood, drug use, suicide, and brief auto-cannibalization**

* * *

Gilbert asked God for war, but it is the Führer who will answer instead.  
Gilbert can feel it in his bones.

 **29th September, 1938**

Nobody speaks a word as they wait for the final agreement; somewhere in the background a clock ticks loudly the seconds, the occasional fragment of voices floats over to them, if Gilbert concentrates he bets he can hear birds sing.

What a surreal experience it is, Gilbert thinks as he watches the other men of the room with their bitten-down nails and grim expressions, to be the only party in a state of resigned calmness. The fatigue that has made his being its home makes it a tad difficult to care too much and it once again leaves him in the position of the detached observer, the odd one out. The discomfort tingling in his limbs is of a different nature than theirs.

"It's still a curious sight" he muses out loud eventually, a valiant push against the fog of boredom that has settled in his mind, and immediately the three other heads snap up at this rude disruption of tense silence.  
Listlessly Gilbert takes a sip from his glass of water and with a loud clack sets it down again. "To see you two as allies."

Arthur and Francis both tense for a second and glance at one another as if they themselves only just recognized what constellation they ended up in, but the moment of confusion is only fleeting and their eyes harden when they return to Gilbert.  
"We are able to place our principles before our personal differences. Our goals align, more is not needed" Francis says and brushes a strand of wavy blond hair behind is ear, while Arthur solemnly nods in agreement, the furrowed thick eyebrows nearly shadowing his eyes in his hunched over posture.  
"It helps to have a common foe" the Englishman adds, and it's not clear whether it is meant as a threat or an accusation.

"A common foe" Gilbert echoes pensively, leaning back in his seat and allowing his gaze to wander. A foe. That's what they are once more. It's a curious thing to consider, that they are back in their old allegiances. France and Britain. Germany and Austria and Italy. One would think they'd learn. Switch it up a little.  
"I was under the impression that you have pledged yourself to peace. Is that not the point of this conference? To maintain that peace? It's a little harsh of you to paint my brother and I an enemy when there is not even yet a war."  
"There won't be any war."  
"Which makes your attitude all the more absurd!"

Francis' eye and his fingers twitch, and Gilbert gives them a wry smile. "Some resentment lingers after all, doesn't it. No shame in admitting that."

"It has nothing to do with old quarrels" Arthur remarks snidely, his strident voice piercing the Prussian's brain matter like needles. Nails on chalkboard. Half-dead parrot, letting out its final hoarse shrieks. "This has everything to do with that attitude of your brother."

Gilbert involuntarily takes in a sharp breath through his gritted teeth as the other finally addresses the elephant in the room. Or its lack, rather.  
In the seat to his side, Feliciano still politely pretends to not be invested in the conversation, but his eyes are wide and peer back at him curiously.

The Prussian opens his mouth to speak, but Francis narrows his eyes, speaking before he can get a single word of defense out. "Do not try to tell us you two are no threat. We aren't blind to the proceedings in Germany."

Another needle lodged in his brain, Gilbert clicks his tongue in irritation as his gloved fingers dig into the armrest of his chair, his following words dripping with bitter sarcasm. "Oh, I certainly would have tried to sell you the idea that Ludwig is but a yapping little puppy, and I myself too old and tired to even chase after a stick! I am incapable of using my brain after all."  
Francis looks like he's going to enthusiastically agree with that statement.  
"Arthur. Francis. Let my brother be my concern. As this conference should tell you, neither of us seeks war, only the safety of our people."

He knows that nobody in the room quite buys that statement. Hard to do so, when there is that feverish glint in Gilbert's eyes, his eyes that are as red as the banners and the once-hated armbands.

"He is right, that is why we are here in the first place! We only negotiate the terms now, don't we?" Feliciano piques up finally with a smile too sweet, and Gilbert feels a pang of glee when he sees the other two nations shift uncomfortably in their seats, because this at least they cannot argue with, no matter how much they would like to retort something.  
Despite his remaining doubts, the Prussian thinks it's convenient that it is now of all times that Feliciano has finally chosen to be a loyal ally.

"We will still keep an eye on the developments. I knew the day I first met him that your brother would cause nothing but trouble for all of us. It is honestly surprising that you would be so defensive of him, when he has caused you so much harm as well" says Francis sourly and with childish spite. "It's strange indeed" tuts Arthur, like he is Francis' damn echo. Another needle, and Gilbert is close to strangling both of them. He almost wishes his boss would topple the talks and declare war on the whole godforsaken world.  
So he smiles, with all the contempt he carries with him, tone clipped to rein himself in.  
"What is that harm do you speak of? We are closer than ever, I assure you. But I could never hope for you to be able to comprehend that."

It is true in a sense: Gilbert's self has been slipping from his grasp more and more often now. When Ludwig speaks sometimes it is as if these are his own words, as if they share the same thoughts. It's blending together until it isn't clear where they end and the other begins, or maybe it just feels like that to Gilbert. Gleichschaltung, what a _joy_.  
It has gotten so bad that the Prussian cannot even hate it. Can't hate Ludwig, who is not at fault for this. As long as he can still remember the differences between them, all is well.  
Their boss lets him feel their difference in value often enough at least; already evident in how Ludwig sits with the humans right now as a pretty trophy, while he is relegated to sitting with these old pests. He should be thankful for the reminder.

"If that is what you say."

.

.

.

The agreement is signed. No war for them, this time.

The German brothers watch impassively as the other nations and their bosses finally turn to leave, triumphant in their little success for peace. They are so elated and relieved, the humans who lack the wisdom of a nation.  
On his way out, Arthur briefly lingers in front of Gilbert, and it's a nearly sickening realization that something reflects in his narrowed green eyes that resembles genuine worry.

"Please try to keep the situation under control, yeah?" he mutters, and the shuffles onward to return to his boss.

And something clicks in Gilbert's head, as the needles in it break off and he needs to cover his mouth to not let his laugh escape.

 _We aren't blind to the proceedings in Germany_ , they had said – but they are.

God, God it's hysterical—so fucking hilarious, how they strut around toting themselves as the peacekeepers and they have no idea, not an inkling of what they are up against!  
They have no idea how deeply the parasite has nested itself into their cores, how it has eaten its way through their beings like a hungry maggot who is never sated, _die kleine verdammte Raupe Nimmersatt_ , and now everything inside is rotten. They think they know, but how can they if they do not recoil in disgust at the stench of decay?

"You can never appease this! Never!" he hears himself shout after Arthur as a strange and yet utterly exquisite exhilaration takes hold of him, the one that he's felt buzzing somewhere in his ribcage over the past years but never allowed to wash over him (why even, why continue to fight it when he is so tired—)

The look Arthur sends back over his shoulder is wretched and terrified, and for just a moment, the maggot is satisfied. Ludwig chuckles quietly next to him, and he thinks he even hears Roderich's snort of amusement further down the line.

They know their boss has no plans to act within the bounds of the agreement, so let these two roaches to the west choke on that damn self-congratulating.  
There is only fire and blood that can stop them.

.

.

.

 **23rd August, 1939**

Another agreement that will not be heeded awaits them.

"I must confess, I am nervous" says Ludwig with an embarrassed laugh, and keeps tugging at the fabric of his uniform, like an animal that grooms to calm itself in the danger of a predator just around the corner.  
"Stop fidgeting like that, will you?" Gilbert reprimands him with an affectionate note to disguise his own nerves, punching his brother's arm, right into the eye of the swastika. "The Russian will play along, even if you were to embarrass yourself. And that is all we need."

Ludwig's brow crinkles, a relic from his childhood days when he met affection with pure distrust, but his features smooth over and he forces a small little smile as he rubs his arm. "Reassuring. I would simply like to not make a fool of myself in the face of the communist."

"I wish you good luck with that endeavor" Gilbert replies without missing a beat, enjoying this bit of banter of his brother. Things have been tense between them as Gilbert is stretched thin between his conscious and the tempting oblivion of fading completely, making him irritable and unkind towards even family. He's worried sometimes, that Ludwig is so porous, so weak to the opinions of others that he listens to the traitorous whispers that tell him to turn away from his brother and wait for him to turn to dust.  
But here they stand, together. Always together now. Welted together in the fire of the depravity that burns in their hearts, melting all and any rational thought that is not fed by propaganda.  
Who knew propaganda could be so devastatingly effective on creatures such as them? They do now.

The only way Gilbert can still tell something is wrong, that something has been planted in his head, is the discrepancy between his memories and his self and the bile of self-loathing at night. Most of all though it's the crying in his ears, incessant, always in the back of his mind, but he's becoming an expert at ignoring the sound and swallowing the guilt becomes easier with each day.

And now off to make a deal with the Russian devil.

"Bruder?"

Ludwig ceases in his attempts to shred the sleeve of his uniform and glances at the Prussian. His face is so pale in his nervousness, Gilbert notes. He looks sick.  
"Is there something?" the German queries, tilting his head a bit to the side, his body tense in alertness.

"When we meet him… allow me to shake Ivan—Russia's hand in your place. I have known him longer than you so the bad blood between us runs older, and he is closer to what is left of me than he is to you. Let me indulge in this little victory" Gilbert requests, his voice falling to a conspiratory whisper as they continue to walk through the streets of Moscow. It is less about nostalgia and victories than it is because something about the thought of Ludwig shaking hands with that man upsets him.  
"The Führer has already requested for me to seal the deal with Russia, however I think I can… I can let you do it in my stead."

Gilbert theatrically grips the front of his uniform and touches his other hand to his forehead, eliciting a snort from Ludwig. "Oh where would I be without your benevolence?" the Prussian says, his tone turning serious with the next sentence. "But I do appreciate it. You know how he ignores my input because he is upset that I will not fade. My eyes are a little too red to sell me as the perfect Aryan boy too, so he thinks me less useful on top of that. It's infuriating, to say the least."

"I have noticed, yes" Ludwig admits and a scowl touches his features as he finally clasps his hands behind his back in an effort to stop himself from fidgeting.  
"It is unfair. Maybe he believes me a Slav somehow. But if we are both German, if we are one, then he should have no qualms about me taking your spot occasionally" Gilbert continues, because he knows Ludwig is not yet fully convinced. It's when the other man sighs and nods his head.

"I will ensure it will be you in my place. It is only… You know how much I despise straying from a clear order."

Gilbert falters for a moment and grimly says "I do."

Ludwig always took that lesson too much to heart. If only he'd done the same with the lesson on personal responsibility.

"…Even if you know the cause for disobedience is just?"

"Even then. You taught me well."

Silence befalls them as they walk and the words are digested by the part of Gilbert that knows something is wrong, and that wonders how they could become so twisted.

"I think I will leave for East Prussia as soon as the meeting is done and over with, if you don't mind."

"I believe that would be appreciated."

From the corner of his eye, the Prussian sees his brother smile and he shudders when he recognizes it as one of the smiles that he hasn't worn before the swastika, one that reminds him of himself in his younger days when he could not find enough blood to shed.

"We will meet again in Poland, my brother."

.

.

.

Gilbert's prayers are answered.

.

.

.

 **September, 1939**

There has been no formal declaration of war yet, but their troops are already rolling out onto the Polish territory they aim to seize, and Gilbert's heart beats in his throat at the music of military surrounding him.  
It lulls him into a state of trance as they march from East Prussia on enemy soil, to aid their German brethren. Gilbert marvels at what their industry has churned out, the incredible machinery, the advanced rifle in his hands that is aching with bullets to dispense.  
The men around him pay him little attention as they head to war, but he can feel their infectious enthusiasm, the fight in their souls in form of a maggot and he takes just a moment to soak up the feeling as the fogginess drifts from his mind and his body doesn't feel so heavy anymore. His blood sings with their desire to the tune of the songs of the regime, and his being thrums with the anticipation of quick victory and he remembers that this is how it feels to be alive. To be Prussia.  
He bathes in the sensation; what a glorious feeling it is, to be loved.

He crushes the voice in his head that tells him this is unjust the same way he crushes heads and hopes.

It doesn't take long for the killings to commence, even before they meet enemy troops. A young industrialized heart only needs a shallow empty excuse to kill for their nation. Red spills onto the ground and uniforms, red like the banners and his eyes.

Nausea settles in Gilbert's stomach as he turns a blind eye to the murder, and his eyes widen in horrified surprise when a prayer for their souls leaves his lips.  
 _Subhuman_ , whispers the louder voice in his head, the one with the foreign inflection of an Austrian, and why would he waste a prayer on them?

The feeling doesn't fade until they have their first proper military encounter and the first bullet hits Gilbert, ripping through his flesh with a never-before felt brutality. A primal cry forces its way out of his throat at the white-hot pain in his chest, the noise quickly morphing into sickening gurgles as his lungs fill with blood.  
His vision blurs as he stares down at his hands, covered in his own blood that stains the front of his uniform and the rifle becomes difficult to grab with how slick his grip is. His body, not quite human not quite mortal, struggles against the loss of the red liquid, trying to mend the wound the enemy bullet left in its wake in his flesh. His hearing has shut down and the world spins in the mess that the battle quickly became, and in his bones awakens a deep rage, like a slumbering beast that finally rears its ugly head, so he doesn't need to think twice anymore.

He coughs up as much of the blood as he can, admiring the red patches on the ground for only a second before he takes aim and throws himself into battle with all the pent-up frustrations and loathing, with every ounce of detestation, and a mighty roar of battle as if this were a battle like in the good old days.  
Just that these new fancy weapons are so much more effective than a sword, no matter how skilled the hand is that carries it.  
He almost feels something akin to pity when he descends upon the Polish soldiers, and that even though he doesn't even see the terror he inflicts.

When the gunfire finally ceases, there are bodies littered about, but he is left no time to feel remorse for it.  
They want to make this war quick and decisive. No time for rest or emotions.  
Isn't it funny, he thinks, how he fought to leave that mindset behind after the last Great War and now he has fallen back into its trap?  
He'd be disgusted with himself, but alas, no time left.

Relentlessly they push further inland, their troop grouping up with others on occasions as they more march through skirmishes than fight in them, and Gilbert realizes too late that perhaps that is not so great for him.

It's in the middle of a battle a week later that the exhaustion from nights spent lying awake and over-exerting himself decides to catch up with him, and it hits him like a ton of bricks.  
His legs buckle beneath him as he tries to move forward, and eventually he can barely see, his eyelids drifting shut despite the smell of death all around and the exploding shells and the terrible screams of the fallen. He wishes he were less human when he sinks to his knees in the midst of it all.  
He wishes he were even less of a human.

"What the fuck are you doing?!"

The harsh voice drags Gilbert back into the world and he lets out a startled gasp when a young man grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him violently, until his helmet almost falls off. He cannot make out the features of the soldier, but for a moment he looks like Ludwig, and that is a comfort. An army of Ludwig is what they built.  
"Didn't get enough rest" he admits, tone joking because it sounds like such a foul excuse for his sorry state, and he waits curiously as this man curses loudly, then rummages through his supplies in the middle of a damn battlefield.

"Take care of yourself the next time and rely on these if you must" the man grumbles and takes out a harmless-looking tablet container, opening to take out a single small white pill, forcing it into Gilbert's mouth the next moment.

" _Panzerschokolade_ " the soldier explains with what the Prussian assumes is a joking undertone. He's heard of this. He's fairly certain it's among his own supplies even, but he hadn't paid it much mind so far.  
Maybe he also has simply forgotten between the phases of meltdowns of his self and the bone-deep exhaustion.

With no way to confirm the passage of time, Gilbert doesn't know how long he sits there on the ground, but he's fairly certain it's been a while since he was left behind here with only a corpse as company.  
Certainly.  
And he still feels extremely tired.

The effects only really kick in once the troop pushes further onwards again.

The fever of his people, the parasite in his heart, the drug, they become a cocktail of euphoria for Gilbert and he feels like he's soaring across these fields like the eagle on his flag; his compassion for the slaughtered innocent dies somewhere along the way, chased away by the poison pumping through his veins and the _Gift_ of his mind that seeps into his very nature as he is flooded with inexplicable joy. There is only so much space in his heart.  
His next night is a hazy dream of eagles, guts, and Pervitin. And Ludwig.

He finds the container among his own supplies the next morning.

He doesn't really remember all that much from the next week beyond blurs of red.

.

.

.

His mind clears up properly around the 20th of the month, and he realizes with a start that he is no longer with the troops he originally followed, but among new German soldiers. Frantically he tries to think of what has happened in the last few days and he relaxes instantly when he realizes that he has met up with Ludwig.  
They have encircled Warsaw two days ago.

"Brother!"

He whirls around at the call and his chest heaves in relief when he lays eyes on his brother. It has been less than a month, but with a sting of excruciating pain to his middle Gilbert realizes that being apart has become a physical ordeal for him. Apart, his body is lethargic if not fuelled by "chocolate". Together, and already his body fights the poison he has fed it on a regular business, his kidneys exerting themselves in their efforts, and he feels rejuvenated, like he can finally recover properly from the bullets that found his body.  
Ludwig stinks of rotten flesh and ideology, but Gilbert still greets him with a rare embrace to celebrate the quick success of their forces and the absolutely lovely beginning to their campaign to take what they deserve. Reclaiming his very own west. They have all but steamrolled their opponent, and soon Warsaw will fall to them just as well.

Ludwig wears that awful smile again.

Gilbert remembers lines of untalented penmanship and an aggressive voice that breathed life into them, and the word subhuman once again flashes in his mind.  
The blood washes it away, just like Gilbert's doubts and morality that he once clung to so fiercely.

.

.

.

The drug has worn off, but the high hasn't.

It still tingles in his blood, behind his eyes, a constant companion as he marches through the city of Warsaw and his chest swells with uncontainable pride when he breathes the terrible air that has spread through the streets.  
His fingers are deeply buried in the shock of blond hair of a kicking and screaming Poland as he drags him behind him; for each kick, he pulls particularly harshly on the tresses, though he knows it is to no effect. There's still fight left in that nation, his will not broken yet despite the many gashes that will not close, because these wounds are more severe than physical damage.

A group of German soldiers and Soviets have their eyes on them as they parade around like that, and eventually the German stops his brother.  
"This is as good a place as any" he whispers, an eye on the soldiers watching them and some petrified Polish people, and Gilbert relents, letting go of Poland.  
No more human names for the others; makes it easier to pretend he's not a monster when he slits their throats.  
He reminds himself that in this world there will always be winners and losers, and for the winners to taste the sweetness of victory, somebody has to pay the bloody price. And that is fine as long as he is the victor.

Ludwig takes out his knife and the blond hair of the Polish man floats to the ground in strands as he is humiliated before the troops, before his face is harshly shoved to the ground. The soldiers laugh at the display, having seen much more brutal scenes like this, hearts already dulled to the violence. Somebody claps.

When Gilbert tears his face away from the broken body on the ground shedding bitter tears at the mistreatment, he sees Russia approaching them with an easy smile on his lips that comes nowhere near reaching his cold eyes. Like a fucking dead fish, it's eerie.  
"This campaign has been most successful! I must say, we cooperate a lot better than anticipated. I should have just relied on the reputation of German efficiency. Capitalist pigs or not."

Ludwig reluctantly steps away from Poland and comes to stand with his brother and the Russian, flinching when the tall nation puts one arm around him, one around Gilbert.

"I have a feeling this alliance of ours will be most effective! I am quite looking forward to our future cooperation, my **товарищи**."  
Gilbert and Ludwig both smile in response, the gesture strained and unnatural, because Russia is the wrong sort of red and his people the wrong kind of human. The disposable kind.  
Subhuman, the voice supplies, like a broken recorder.  
A bit odd to call them _comrades_ then.

Gilbert tastes bile, and the Russian's hand rests heavy on his shoulder. In this moment that the glee subsides a little, he hears the screams again, Poland's angry sobbing entering the cacophony.  
Gilbert's fingers itch for the empty tablet container.

.

.

.

 **11th May, 1940**

"About time you two show up" grumbles Roderich testily as he leans on his rifle, scrutinizing the two of them over the rim of his glasses. "Operation Yellow is already under way, and I have been on my own here the entire time."

"If only I had known you missed us so dearly, we would have stayed away longer" Gilbert retorts with saccharine, because nothing can make him forget that this man pisses him off with his very disposition. Or maybe Ludwig hates him too. Maybe Roderich hates himself too, who knows. He has no idea how much their Austrian brother has already faded.  
"We were held up in the North, brother. We could get there before England could, but only by a few scant hours and the enemy is a bit more persistent than anticipated. Nothing we can't break in time but it required our attention" Ludwig explains, tenderly brushing his fingers with blood under the nails over the fresh laceration on his jaw that will not fade as quickly as it should.

"Only a day of delay, Roderich. And you aren't dead in a ditch or trampled in a trench, so it can't have been that bad" adds Gilbert dismissively, seeing that the other has yet no lasting injuries on his person; hardly even blood on his uniform. Probably too squeamish to really get his hands dirty.

"It's not just that. While you two were dallying around in the East with the great bulk of the army, I had to keep an eye on the French all by myself. They even pushed into our territory at one point! I would simply appreciate it if you acknowledged that I have been having your back." Roderich sighs dramatically and shifts his weigh a little, placing both his hands on the butt of his rifle, straightening his back defiantly.

"We do appreciate it, brother. But then, it would have been deeply humiliating for you if you had not managed to keep back a few frogs, and then I would have had to punish you" says Ludwig with affected cheer, clapping Roderich on the back once and then he moves on, not seeing the spark of fear in Roderich's eye.  
He already looks further west towards France.

"He has changed" Roderich mutters.

"We all have" responds Gilbert coldly.

.

.

.

 **22nd June, 1940**

The victor's songs reverberate in the air in the streets of Paris as their red banners fly high, black eye glaring down on any and all that still have resistance left in them, demanding to be bowed to by what they call the inferior brood.

France does not bow, but his eyes are glassy as he looks up to the heavens and his face set in pained resignation, golden-blond locks cut short with a crude army knife in Ludwig's hand. As always he tries to wear defeat with dignity, but that is hard when you are flanked by two men in uniforms as black as death itself and your country has fallen after hardly more than a month.  
"Why do you do this? Gilbert? Ludwig?" the man asks quietly, his voice breaking at the last syllable in his hopelessness and fruitless defiance, and Ludwig fixes him with a pitying gaze. "It was you who declared war on me, France. You forced my hand; it was like breaking a rabbit's neck for me. And refrain from calling us by these names. Maybe someday you will be allowed to use them once more, but not now."

It is amazing how easily Ludwig speaks these days. It was bad for a little while – it hurt him to spit such venom, to spill such atrocities, but now it's second nature for both of them. Poland and France and Netherlands and Belgium and Luxembourg and Denmark and Norway are already at their feet, and it's so hard to hate yourself when you stand upon a pedestal and look upon the world from above, because since when does the devil take his throne in heaven?  
Then again, Gilbert wonders if not maybe there are thoughts in Ludwig's brain that he cannot read after all.

France closes his eyes and gives a bitter smile. Plotting revenge for later, as always.

.

.

.

The year is going well for them; England gives them trouble, but he too will cave eventually with enough pressure. They can afford a few casualties, they are told to placate the nations, even if it hurts. Sometimes you must pay your victory with blood too. That is the reality of war.

Nevertheless, things are going exceptionally well. Europe has realized who dictates the rules now and collaborators can be found everywhere. Feliciano and his brother launch their offense, but it doesn't take long for them to fall back again because even as loyal allies, they are weak, and Gilbert and Ludwig argue about it. The soft underbelly of the Axis powers, the Italians are called by England.

Despite this, in September they form another solemn pact with the Italian brothers and their friend from Asia. Kiku has been proving himself a formidable force as he slaughters his way through the Chinese fields. Almost worthy, the humans say.  
Almost worthy, Ludwig parrots.  
Russia calls, but Ludwig doesn't pick up the phone because the Führer has decided that they will go to war, so he was forbidden to. And he doesn't break the rules, not ever.

Something in Gilbert's rotten heart stirs.

But as so many other things, the dirt that has piled up, the Prussian pays it no more mind than he has to, and he focuses on the glory they reap, the golden joy of their people, the sun's rays of the promised success that blinds him so much that he does not see the corpses on his path.

.

.

.

It's been incredibly easy for Ludwig and him to smile through the persecution, despite the ringing in their ears. Guilt can be so easy to swallow.

Before Gilbert's eyes flash images of Ludwig as he cheerfully leans over endless plans and lists, over schedules and plots.  
To him the tallies might as well be referring to stones instead of humans, because his enthusiasm for systems has always made him lose sight of the nature of the things he is dealing with. Lists, structures, systems, those are the true loves of the German, and Gilbert has the creeping suspicion that this is how the maggot ate its way into Ludwig's being and subsequently into his own, disguised as the tempting comfort of thoughtlessness that lines and numbers and orders offer.

There is no remorse; at least, that is what Gilbert thinks until they receive a letter. There's a new camp, and the officer there wants to demonstrate its effectiveness to them, so they pack their things and head back to Poland with a sense of foreboding dread in their minds.  
But it's just a camp. They've had those before. The Russians have some too. Nothing new.

The officer is gleeful and beaming as he greets them and without delay brings him to the heart of the camp and—

God—

The screams in their ears swell to deafening volumes, drowning out every other sound with the wail of despair and such terrifying suffering, and their lungs seize up with the overwhelming searing hot pain in their chests at the sight. They don't hear the gunshots. They just see the horror unfold, the twisted reality of what they have built, the blood that stains their souls.

Industrialized killing following strict schedules, but not even Ludwig can stomach the grueling events, which is a step away at least from the abomination he's presented himself as, a little step on a slippery slope.

After the visit, he never wears black again.  
The uniform collects dust.

They do not speak about the incident or about the other camps that start to sprout from the ground like deadly fungus, even when Gilbert feels they should.  
He realizes he has grown scared of talking to Ludwig when it is not about victory.

.

.

.

 **1941**

The pace of things accelerates even more, if that is possible, and it's not even the Pervitin this time. Gilbert's container is empty, and he has no prescription, so he remains sober as he marches with the soldiers and pushes his body beyond its limits, relishing in the pain even because it drives any more complex thought from his brain.

This time they have set their eyes on the Balkans again; the wars always lead them back there, don't they? Always on the desperate call of an inadequate ally and due to their benevolence at that, it's incredibly amusing to find these little parallels between the horrendous past and the gilded present.  
Jealous little Italy who has nothing to back up that fire burning within, starting wars with countries who crush his soldiers like cockroaches and then crying until they decide to take pity on him and lead his campaigns to success – maybe not that one in Africa. But they aren't talking about that one. That was a _fluke_ , nothing more.

Ludwig is not by his side this time, to their dismay. He's back in Berlin so he can be admired and fawned upon by the German people and their puppeteer some more, a little reminder of what they are fighting for, that handsome blond man, the pinnacle of creation. He's such an effective pretty tool of propaganda, another cog in the machine.  
Feliciano's presence helps Gilbert forget about it for a little while. It is strangely soothing, an alright substitute; around him you nearly lose sight the severity of all this, all your weariness, despite the slightly unhinged nature of the smile.

Still, Gilbert always remembers again that he misses his brother dearly, because the physical distance is painful and whenever they are apart, Gilbert starts to feel like a person again - but he doesn't want the resurfacing doubts when the guns are silent long enough for the blood to dry. He should have decided to retire when he was presented with the opportunity, but that fucking stubbornness of his made him spit on the idea. He too is like vermin, clinging to existence with every fiber of his being against his own desires;

Cut his head off and he will continue to crawl.

And then that thought is carried away again like driftwood in the flood and he only thinks of Ludwig.

.

.

.

First they crush the will to resist in Greece, and then with soaring hearts they proceed to march north, and the rivers run red in their wake.  
They own this soil, and they own these people, and soon they'll own the world.

.

.

.

There's another Red to focus on later into the year, at the height of June when Gilbert cannot aid his brother as he is held up still in the Balkans, though the messages Ludwig sends put him at ease.  
Roderich is there at least, and the Russian giant is mostly bark and no bite ever since his boss has decided to purge his own lines. He is bleeding and half-crazy, sending his people into death traps deliberately and burning his own equipment with no regards for anything, so the German troops have it even easier to embroil the people in grueling battles, encircling them with first tanks and then humans, and while losses occur, he is confident that the Red devil will soon fall to their bullets and shells. A few months at most, then even Russia will topple over.  
Ludwig says if Russia were not so inferior to him, he would have liked to pursue the friendship further, but all that blooms between them now are flowers feeding on the spilled blood.

It makes Gilbert smile to read the words brimming with fanatic pride and unshakeable self-confidence, like it is himself stepping on the insects.

.

.

.

Water is wet. Winter is fucking cold. Really fucking cold.

Gilbert presses his gloved fingers against his aching eyes, the tear fluid seemingly freezing when he keeps his eyes open for too long. Little ice crystals have nestled into his eyelashes and crept onto his stiff clothing and his breath freezes the moment it leaves his cold mouth, like clouds of smoke out of a tired steam engine.  
He's shaking most pathetically in this merciless cold and he wishes for a moment this war were over and he could retreat to a warmer climate that is more kind to him, but the voice in his head doesn't allow that thought to exist for long and the crying in his ears tells him it's only fair that he suffers. He should view it as a privilege to fight this just war. It's a privilege, the parasite says. And he listens reluctantly.

"Don't stop moving, brother" Ludwig calls to him with a faintly worried note, and he even grabs Gilbert by his wrist and tugs him forward as they trudge through the thick blanket of snow. "If you stop, the cold will claim you as its victim. Our bodies are not immune to it, and you will be stuck in an endless loop of dying and regenerating that I would rather not put you through. Keep moving."  
The Prussian bites his cracked and bloody lip and forces his mutilated body to march on, past the strewn-about bodies of their unfortunate people who were simply not equipped for this winter. They cannot drag any of them somewhere more dignified under these circumstances, so they will stay there until the snow melts and the earth reclaims them.

The trek of the brothers is long and arduous, and every once in a while they come across some of their scattered soldiers and instantly the husks of men come alive a little again, filled anew with the desire to make this man proud of them, to give him anything, to kill and die for him.  
And then they move onwards.

"Stop that" Gilbert scolds half-heartedly when he sees Ludwig employ his newest nervous tic – chewing on his own fingers, even through the thick gloves on their hands to keep those precious digits from simply falling off. He's been doing that ever since they've been to that camp last year.  
Keeps doing it. Worse since they got another invitation to that deathtrap because it's ever more efficient now.

Ludwig acts like he didn't hear it, his gaze clouded with fever.

.

.

.

Kiku loses his mind a little, but Ludwig still declares his utmost support.

They declare war on America, even as they are entrenched in the ice of Russia, which means that there is now a timer on their campaigns, ticking away to what will either be brilliant success or ultimate demise.

.

.

.

 **Late summer, 1942**

"Brother! Brother, look at this!"

With a boyish grin Ludwig leans over the map laid out in front of them and excitedly points at the lines marked on the paper. Darker lines for where their borders once lied, in a time that is so distant to Gilbert that he hardly remembers it some days, and then the lighter, fresher ones. The newly claimed territories, the conquered, the dependents. Some minor setbacks.  
Red eyes widen as it oh so slowly dawns on Gilbert, a steady drip of realization in his head until his skull is filled with it. Frantically he licks his lips and traces the lines with a shaking finger, over and over and over.

It's true—  
This is the most territory they have ever claimed.

The exhilaration that bursts in his chest is indescribable as he stumbles backwards from the table, his heart pounding and swelling in his pride and the not quite unadulterated happiness until breathing becomes difficult and a little gasp escapes his mouth. He needs to press a hand to his mouth to hold back the foreign reverent words bubbling up in his throat, the cheers of a nation.  
Tears prick hotly in his eyes at the sensation, this overwhelming sea of emotion that swallows him and he is so utterly helplessly drunk that he even hugs Roderich close.

The maggot cheers viciously, victoriously.

Ludwig's grin stretches from ear to ear as he embraces his brother, and they laugh as the tension from the last months falls off of them like a heavy cloak that pushed down on their shoulders, and for once Ludwig seems carefree, like his old self. Brotherly affection dictates that Gilbert pinch his brother's cheek, so he does, and Ludwig gives a mandatory pout before he breaks out laughing again until a tear runs down his cheek.

The wounds in their flesh are forgotten, the exertion and the nightmares a thing of the distant past as they celebrate the expansion of their empire. Their joint empire, of the young Germany and the old Prussia.

For a brief breathless moment Gilbert remembers though, the way they have paved this road to victory. All the massacres, the systematic persecution and the murder, the intimidation and oppression, the devoured, it all comes back for that moment that there's a crack in Gilbert's conscious. The one that has been nurtured there when he called himself Free State of Prussia and that has grown into a little abyss over the years, the place where the bacteria of doubt fester when the propaganda fails.  
Ludwig smells like he bathed in blood.

But it's so hard to hold on—

So hard to hate—

When you feel this powerful and this loved, when you are in your blindingly bright prime, when you are

the pinnacle of creation.

.

.

.

Pride comes right before the fall.

 _Herr—_

The world has never been theirs; it just laid in wait for the moment to strike against them.

.

.

.

 **1943**

"Stop it, Ludwig. Stop it" Gilbert says, and this time it is not with the tiredness of an older brother who has spoken these words all too often, but with a twisted pleading horror at the sight that presents itself to him in the shape of Ludwig.

Ludwig has changed a bit more than he thought, and he realizes in that moment that they are not one after all.  
That was all delusion.

"What?" Ludwig replies innocently, his voice muffled as he pulls his bloodied hand away from his mouth, a red thread still connecting mangled flesh and teeth as more red runs down the back of the hand from the deep gash Ludwig's jaws have ripped into it.  
One of his fingers is missing, and the evidence of where it has gone is overwhelming.  
Now, does cannibalizing yourself count as a nervous tic?

Even after everything the Prussian has seen and done, he cannot bring himself to touch the hand of his brother to pull it away from the teeth, the revulsion and worry too sickening to do much at all. He shouldn't have left Ludwig out of his eyes, but here they are.

"I will be fine, brother. I am just a little nervous" the German tries to assure him with displaced embarrassment, then licks over the wounds as if to taste more of the metallic tang of blood that has long become the only thing they taste anyway.  
"Just a little stressed."

His seemingly unseeing eyes are more red than blue by this point from the feverish glint in his eyes.

"Alright" Gilbert hears himself say against the urge to throttle his brother for the blatant lies, and his eyes drift over the many lakes of his homeland. This is where they have retreated after all the setbacks and the injuries the Allies and Red Pigs have dug into their bodies within the year, back to the comforting arms of East Prussia. The bombs have not reached them here yet.  
This is where they brought the Duce too, when they saved him and it was in this house that Feliciano appeared the other day, uniform in tatters and blood streaming down his trembling body as he loudly shouted through the tears that he will continue to be their friend. No matter that they massacred some of his people in cold blood, it is understandable in the face of betrayal but he is loyal now! and he will serve them until death, even if he must fight his brother now, he does not care, he cried passionately as he had to hold on to the doorframe to not collapse, he will fight until the last drop of blood.

That was… yeah, that was just awful.

Gilbert shudders to recall the scene, even if he knows he should be grateful for the support in these trying times, but in the face of Ludwig's madness that is a tad difficult to appreciate. The poison finally has come to claim its prize, is all he can think, and he does not want to consider what this will mean for him.

With Ludwig's weakness, his self is reconstructing.

He bristles at the cold that seeps into his bones.  
This has not been their best year, clearly.

.

.

.

Ludwig's finger is predictably back the next morning, but there's already new bite marks covering the skin pale skin.

"I will head to Russia once more, brother. You will accompany Feliciano back to Italy and support our troops there" the blond man commands once he has his uniform back on and shoulders his rifle, and his eyes are directed at something Gilbert could not hope to see.  
"Shouldn't it be the other way around? He is closer to what remains of me than he is—"  
"Than he is to me. But does that matter? Are we not one? Doesn't matter thus if it is me, or you, or Roderich when you two are both versions of me" Ludwig interjects and smiles, his incisor gleaming in the pale light of morning. "It was an order. You should listen."

Gilbert's fingers twitch and his hands curl into defiant fists, but he swallows the protest has he's done for a long time now. Who needs personal responsibility when you have orders. He leaves the kitchen and grabs his uniform that sits neatly folded on his bed, staring for a moment at the eagle with its little swastika.  
That's not his eagle.

But nevertheless he leaves his home and fetches the elusive Italian so that they may face the Allies in the south, while Ludwig is lost in the woods to the east.

.

.

.

 **? ? 1944**

They settle into a grim pattern over the following months.

As the Allies and Soviets encroach further and further on the territory they conquered in iron and blood, they fly across the continent to beat the drums of war and to scream their throats raw and hoarse in their efforts to rally their people on the battlefields and to appeal to the citizens in bombed-out cities to hold on to the thought of victory, because this too shall pass, this too shall pass and they'll pay back the German people for their losses! This too shall pass! And then the world will be theirs, and their empire shall last a thousand years.

Empty promises, but they have to believe in them anyway.

When the duty is done, they retreat back to East Prussia, into the countryside to the little rundown manor that is their home. Here the air is still and silent as the lakes, not reeking of decomposition, a little haven in the mounting tension in this concert of defeat.  
They do not speak much when they meet there, as Ludwig stays huddle close to his little radio that sings his praises and Gilbert wanders the area around to commit what he sees so accurately into his memory that he believes he will never forget this beautiful sight anymore.

He has the feeling that every time he leaves for another battlefield that he will not find his home standing.

On this day, he drags his battered body down the path through the open plain to the manor and he gives a little smile through the pain and the sweat. The house still stands, even if it is old and full of cracks and could use a little renovation, it still stands strong in this harsh environment. A little sanctuary when everything else falls apart.

However just as he stands outside the door, fumbling with his key because his fingers are stiff and broken, he feels— not hears, feels— the blast of a gun from somewhere close, and he hesitates before he eventually opens the door, the paranoia of a soldier sitting in his brain like a spider.

Ludwig is sprawled out on the kitchen floor, his blood and parts of his brains splattered over parts of the wall and the kitchen cupboards. The still hot gun lies innocently in his rough hand, as if it has done nothing wrong. It just did its job.  
And what a job it did.

With bated breath the Prussian steps further into the room, his footsteps the only sound to break the deafening silence. The floorboards don't even creak as he slowly drops to his knees next to the body and his hand trembles as he reaches out to brush his fingers over the hole in the side of Ludwig's head, the fingertips stained red when he pulls them back.

Well.

The wound is entirely fresh, which means that it will be a little while until Ludwig's body will have recovered from it enough to return the German to the world of the living in a time where their bodies don't regenerate like they used to, their resources too stretched thin.  
Red eyes sweep through the kitchen and he realizes somebody will have to clean up this mess; no good to have such filth in a kitchen. Gilbert comes to stand on shaking legs and goes on his mission to retrieve cleaning supplies. Cleaning is nice and easy menial labor, and the results are incredibly satisfying to see, so Gilbert has always found a certain joy in the simple task.

He scrubs vigorously at the stains that have started already to soak deep into the wooden floor, humming to the tune of Prussia's glory of the good old days, and he wipes the sweat from his brow when he finally admires his handiwork. Nothing is left of the stains, only the corpse remains.  
He stores away the bucket and chemicals in their designated little closet, and then he sits down next to his foolish brother, back leaned against the counter he has propped the corpse up against and his hand seeking the cold one of his brother, and then he waits.

And waits.

.

.

.

"I'm sorry" Ludwig mutters with a raspy voice when his eyes blink open, unfocused but so unbelievably clear for the first time in years.

"I shouldn't have caused such a mess for you. It's just…"

"Just what?"

"I have been having some thoughts for a long time now that I shouldn't have. They've festered, plaguing me every waking and sleeping hour of the day, and not even the Pervitin helped. But I cleaned them all out now."

As if nothing had happened, Ludwig pulls himself up by the edge of the counter, testing out his balance for a moment. He picks up his gun, places it on the cooking surface and stumbles out of the room, only to return a few moments later with his rifle in hand.

Without another word he leaves the house and heads east once again. Gilbert hurries after him, because he will not leave his brother alone again.

.

.

.

But the Führer has different plans for them, so they part eventually once more, losing sight of each other in the chaotic battles that demand more and more tribute with every minute that passes. They are nearly on their doorstep now, the Reds, so at least it's not a long way back home each time.

Ludwig meanwhile is getting creative.

One time he spins quietly on a thick rope with its noose closely around his neck, his face so infinitely serene. So peaceful as if he could not harm a fly and would never even feel the violent inclination to such brutality; it's disturbingly beautiful, Gilbert thinks as he desperately cuts through the persistent fibers of the rope. It's as if it didn't want to release his brother from the grip of death, as if it knew what this man has done.  
Ludwig gasps for air like a fish on land when his heavy body finally drops from its suspension, and he rubs at the angry red marks of death around his neck.

"This method is no good" he chokes out.

So he tries something else next time, and then again something different.

.

.

.

Gilbert likes it best when it's the gun he decides for because even if it's messy, it's predictable. Ludwig is like clockwork, always choosing the same hour of the day for his futile endeavors, and the cleaning isn't so bad. Keeps his brother busy when he does not have any other duties to perform.  
Delicate razor blades at his wrists are fine too. Messy as well, but sometimes the blood can be stopped before Germany bleeds out entirely, and then Gilbert too has a thing for clean lines.

Cyanide capsules are worst because of the terrible seizures. Like Ludwig is an eel that fights a battle against the elements that it cannot hope to win but holds on to anyway. Gilbert cannot force himself to watch that and always waits until the body has stilled and grown cold.

.

.

.

After each attempt, be it by gun or drowning or bleeding himself dry, Gilbert hefts up the broken body and carries it to Ludwig's room. He cleans up the blood and insides left behind, dabbing a towel with utmost care to the fresh and old wounds later to keep them from getting infected, and then he tucks his brother in.

He pulls the blanket up to Ludwig's chest and sometimes he sits besides the bed for a while, stroking the blond unkempt hair with care, and sings a lullaby. He never sang usually because his voice is too scratchy, too grating, too this and too that, but these days he sings for the soul of his little brother, the little brother he swore to protect and nurture.  
He almost forgets about the war in these moments, about the machinery that is crawling towards them from east and west and south, about the world that wants them dead.

When he doesn't share the bed with his brother to ensure he will not do anything stupid at night, he presses a goodnight kiss to the crown of Ludwig's head.

How absurd to care so much for a mechanized beast that swallows humans and nations alike, but he cannot help himself. The love for his brother is rotten as everything else inside is, but it's so much older than the regime that wants Ludwig to eat him whole.

Gilbert thinks of the days when Ludwig was young and would cling to his side, and listen with reverence to every word he spoke. The childish joy when he was given attention, the overestimation of such a young nation as he spit into France's face and claimed to not be afraid, the arrogance when he said with a cheeky grin "But I am your empire".

.

.

.

"Give me the fucking gun, Ludwig!"

The force with which the butt of the weapon is bashed against the side of his face leaves Gilbert dizzy and disoriented for the blink of an eye, before his instincts make him throw himself at his brother in a wild and mad attempt to wrestle the gun from his grip with little regard for the pounding in his head from the impact.  
Ludwig puts up a formidable fight despite the wreck that his once strong body has become, and he does not refrain from even biting his opponent when Gilbert lets his arm come too close to his brother's mouth.

"Get your hands away from me!" the German snarls as he bats his brother's hands away and tries to get some distance between them again, but Gilbert will not let him.

"Hand me the fucking gun, Ludwig, or I will personally bash your skull in!"

Ludwig squares his shoulders and stubbornly raises his arm as high as he can, to keep the goddamn thing from Gilbert's reach, Gilbert whose growth and strength was always stunted by the lack of nourishment; it's a degrading gesture. Absolutely degrading.

"How dare you" Gilbert croaks and takes a threatening step forward, but Ludwig does not budge. His eyes are ice-cold and glazed over, because whatever it is that he is trying to purge from his being is too strong for him.  
Gilbert caught him, as he stood in his room again with the gun pointed at his temple, and he has decided he's had enough. He's sick of his brother killing himself in every way that he can, but of course he is the asshole!

"Brother" Ludwig says through clenched teeth. " _Back off this instant_. Please."

"Give me one good reason why I should!" Gilbert counters angrily, letting himself get lost in the feeling of rage because it reminds him that maybe being himself isn't so bad and never lets him lose sight of what different beings he and Ludwig are after all. "Do you think I enjoy seeing you off yourself every other day? Do you think that's a fun past time for me, to clean up the blood and drag your sorry ass into bed?"

"It's a necessary evil" Ludwig retorts tersely, not wavering from his position even when Gilbert grips the front of his uniform. How nostalgic this is.  
"I must do it."

"Oh, it's the thoughts, isn't it? The thoughts you refuse to share with me while claiming that we are one?"

Ludwig doesn't respond, and that is answer enough.

Gilbert is about to let out a triumphant laugh in the face of such predictability, but he freezes when he catches a single tear running down Ludwig's cheek in the dim light.

"I have thought about defecting" the German admits, his entire being seeming to cave in as these traitorous words are uttered into the room between them.  
"It's been on my mind for years, but it was never this bad. Before, there was— there were so many voices in my head that cheered me on, and I felt so disgusted with myself at first because even though I knew it was wrong, they made me feel so _powerful_ , it just felt so good, so unbelievably _good_ , and that made it easy to endure it all. And then I thought that maybe I was wrong all along and that I should stick to my orders for my people to bring them the glory they deserve. But then the doubts came back, when we saw that camp, when we saw what they did there, and it's left me sick. Ill in the head. I kept dreaming of calling for an end of this war. But I can't do that! I can't break away from the rules! If I do, then everything is going to collapse, and if the orders are wrong, then everything I have done is nothing but atrocious.  
So I must erase these thoughts from my head, brother. And if the thoughts are just in the end, then we deserve nothing but death anyway."

A pathetic sob tears from Ludwig's throat as he puts the gun to his head and pulls the trigger before Gilbert can even react.

They deserve nothing but death anyway.

 _Herr—_

They deserve death.

 _Vergib ihnen nicht—_

Deserved death.

 _Denn sie wissen, was sie tun—_

All along, Ludwig had known.

He's known, but not uttered a word, not a prayer, no thing, he clung to the rigid orders like the boy Gilbert had raised him to be, the lifeline to justify all this.

Gilbert's senses are overcome with a terrible stench that bites in his eyes, in his mouth, in his nose, and it's for once not coming from Ludwig, but from somewhere outside.

Trembling, he slowly walks over to the window with its drawn curtains, the way seeming endless as the chorus in his ears swells to its climax and his heart flutters in his chest, quivering in the harsh breeze that sneaks through the cracks in the walls. How can it be so cold in— what is it? A glance on the calendar tells him it's August. Too cold for August

Carefully he pulls the curtain aside and peers out onto the fields surrounding his house, and out there stands one lone figure, bright in the dreary environment like a memorial.

It's a haggard man, a caricature only of the person he used to be. The round curves of his face have disappeared over the course of the war, the once soft and curly hair is matted with grease and dried blood, and the once friendly eyes lie sunken deep into their sockets, the grim expression unmoving as he stares ahead through the thin glass pane separating the man and the onlooker in the window.  
Blood wells to the surface where gashes were cut into the skin, and a portion of the pale face is a horrible sight to behold, the expanse of what was snow-white a burned mess.

The stink of burned flesh and of German soldiers fills everything. Bleeding and half-crazy, and yet he still stands.

Russia does not need to move, not to speak a word.

Gilbert hastily lets go of the curtain again and turns his back to the man, rather bearing the sight of Ludwig than of their enemy on their threshold.  
His knees give in and the Prussian plops to the ground, feeling the cold wall of his home at his back.

He weeps then, like a child, loudly and without shame, his body wracked under the violent sobs and the sting of his eyes as he wails and cries to his heart's content, fear and guilt eating him from the inside.  
The maggot is silent.

Shaking fingers wrap around the cross at his neck and even if it's the wrong sort of cross, he kisses his lips to it a hundred times as for the first time in a felt eternity, Gilbert speaks to God. Rocking back and forth, he prays until his conscious slips from him.

 _Lord, forgive them not, for they knew what they did._

.

.

.

They need to get back to the frontlines, into the mire of death.

It's not even comparable to things back in Poland in 1939, nothing of that glorious luxury of blind triumph left as they struggle to keep the enemy out of their own land, there is just filth and grime and desperation as the Soviets fall upon them like a horde of suicidal hornets.

Gilbert hardly even knows what he is doing anymore, his orientation completely gone to shit with all the fires that need his attention, his arm bleeding profusely as he presses his rifle to his chest and whispers incoherent prayers.  
He's trapped with three other soldiers, so young that he doubts they have even completed school. He knows they pick them up upon graduation often enough, but in the frenzied scramble for more human resources the crazy humans are fine sending even boys to their deaths. Bullets fly overhead in their little shelters, and two of them are crying silently. He does not need to ask where they come from; his heart knows that these are East Prussians cooped up here. He speaks to them anyway, trying to make his voice sound soothing. The same tone he used with Ludwig when he cried as a child.

"I want to go home" one of them states gravely, and Gilbert rubs his shoulder. There is a thought taking shape in his head that he cannot shake. He cannot allow himself to think too long about, he has to take action or the resolution will leave him and he will think of how he will betray his orders.

"What is your name, soldier?"

"Ulrich."

"Where is your home?"

"It's destroyed. There is nothing to salvage there. But my family…" The boy cuts himself off, as if he were about to spill a terrible secret and only at the last second remembered what situation he is in.  
"They fled to Germany."

Gilbert draws a sharp breath, and instantly feels guilty as he sees the young man flinch.

"The other two. What about you."

Germany, they answer after some prodding and poking, that is where their families have escaped too with no idea what fate will befall their sons and brothers.

It's completely foolhardy, ridiculously risky, and against every rule in place but—

"Listen up, boys. I will get you out of here."

Three pairs of eyes widen in panic at his idea because they must think him entirely mad. What he is suggesting is not only incredibly risky because of the battle raging just beyond their little shelter, but because he is asking them to commit high treason to their country and nation.  
He would paint glaring targets on their backs.

"I am your nation, and I am telling you: I will get you out of here" Gilbert presses, and the boys seem confused and wary, but they still nod their heads and follow his lead as he forces them out of their hiding place.  
He takes all the bullets aimed at them from their own former comrades, and he knows he's making the right decision.

.

.

.

He keeps doing it.

Taking little groups of his people along, guiding them through what would otherwise be their certain deaths, and he takes them beyond that, to the overflowing train stations where the voices of hundreds mix, with some corpses of those who were too exhausted or injured to make the trip left on the platforms.  
Gilbert makes a mental note to ensure they will receive a proper burial once this is all over.

And then he rushes back to the battlefield to do it all over again.

.

.

.

He runs more than he fights these days, but Ludwig is still throwing himself into the lines of Russians with twisted determination or just an intense desire to die already, and Gilbert knows he needs to be by his side in this witch's cauldron.

So he ceases his efforts to save his own, and joins his brother in an exercise in futility, feeling like a sifter already because of the bullets lodged in his body.  
Ludwig is doing no better, the suffering of his people etched into every line of worry on his face and visible in the gashes in his chest that cannot be inflicted by humans alone.

"Brother?" Ludwig says to him in a short reprieve from the endless shooting, the dirt and smoke in the air shielding them from others for this little while, and something about the tone his brother uses makes Gilbert pause.

"Yes?"

Ludwig slowly twists his body around to face him, and Gilbert feels himself taking a cautious step back at the glint in Ludwig's eye that just won't fade, no matter how many times the German dies. Maybe it's just drugs again though, he hopes.  
He knows Ludwig has a prescription because their boss cannot deny his beloved tool when it comes to such matters. Even now.

"Have you been helping some of our men escape?" he asks calmly, not a hint of accusation or anger in these words, but Gilbert still finds himself swallowing around a lump in his throat. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face, cool on the hot skin.  
"I have. They are my men, and I felt it justified" he answers, keeping his voice from faltering, and a sorrowful smile takes hold of his brother's features.

There's a click, then Gilbert is staring right into the barrel of the rifle in his brother's hands.

"For fuck's sake— Ludwig, put the damn thing down…!" Gilbert laughs hysterically, not knowing how else to react to this sudden threat of a fucking gun pointed at his head. This has to be some joke, some cruel joke—

"I can't, Bruder. You forced my hand when you broke the rules. And you know that I cannot let that happen, that I can't, can't disobey! Why did you have to _betray_ me like that?" Ludwig whines, and he's crying again, his eyes rimmed red.  
How sad that Ludwig didn't eat the finger he needs to pull the trigger today.

"If you will not fight and desert me instead, I will have to shoot you. Rather dead than a traitor."

Gilbert realizes a split moment too late that he will not be able to argue with Ludwig, that this is not negotiable, that this is not something he can prevent anymore.

Ludwig has made up his mind, and he has decided for the rules, no matter how terrible they are and how much it damages himself.

The Prussian turns on his heel, and the shot rings out.

It hits him right in the back of his head that misses its helmet – Ludwig's aim has always been perfect.

.

.

.

Gilbert awakens with the taste of dirt and metal in his mouth, lying among the corpses of their soldiers and Russians.

He sheds bitter tears of rage as he realizes that Ludwig didn't even carry him home, didn't bring him back to shelter, didn't clean his wounds and didn't tuck him into bed and didn't wait for him to wake up again.

That makes it easy to make his final decision at least, so maybe he should be thankful that he was not brought back into the comforting arms of family.

He picks himself up, and without a look back begins his journey westwards.

.

.

.

He's just a little ahead of the armies of the Soviets, so he keeps running as fast as his legs can carry him.

Once, he crosses through a village that is as silent as death itself, and he needs to cover his mouth to not vomit because he understands that every habitant of this quaint little place has killed themselves in fear of what is on the horizon.

.

.

.

 **May, 1945**

The shelter is crowded and the stone walls are damp and cold, the wooden bench he sits upon is wet and the wood has twisted under the influence of the water, but it's more than nothing.

There are old men playing skat in some corner with the cards they always bring along, and in another place girls put on a little play for the disinterested and grave crowd, the adults indulging this little attempt at normalcy with affectionate eye rolls. Find some light in this overbearing darkness.

The radio has fallen silent a while ago, and the list of the reported dead has already been read aloud, so there is effectively nothing more to do than wait.

Gilbert sighs, and buries his hands in the pockets of his tattered coat.

.

.

.

 **8th May, 1945**

The sun burns in his eyes when Gilbert finally peels himself out of his little shelter that he's built up from himself in an abandoned garage when he first came back to Berlin.  
His instincts scream at him to be careful, to be cautious and wary of everything that moves on the streets, every shadow a hidden enemy that has been waiting for the mouse to leave its hole.

But it's not just him.

All over the streets, people are poking out of their homes, pouring outside from days and weeks and years of being cooped up inside, eyes wide as they cannot believe that this day has finally come, their bodies lax as the puppet's strings are cut.  
The dust settles slowly and the sun shines down on them kindly.

It's all over.

The war is over, it's over and done with, it's

over.

The screams in Gilbert's ears are finally silent as the camps are liberated, and that little sun in his chest burns bright and hot, and the inner decay is halted in its tracks, the little parasite curling up and burying itself deeply to escape from the ball of pure joy, the elation that fills his being at this realization.

Finally God, God and not another has heard him.

The humans embrace one another in their heart-wrenching joy.

.

.

.

He's crying as he rushes through the streets on aching legs, not stopping even once as he weaves his way through soldiers and citizens, because he knows there is somewhere he needs to be right now.  
He needs to be a good older brother and give Ludwig a proper lecture, now that his mind should be free of the fog, free from orders.  
Maybe he can even forget the pain he's endured at Ludwig's hands.

He can feel he's close.

At last he stumbles upon a little square surrounded by suspicious soldiers, and his heart leaps in his chest because—

There he is.

Ludwig, the traitor and the beast.

Ludwig, his beloved brother.

But he's not alone.

"What a pleasure it is to see you again, you Old Prussian!" America—Alfred calls enthusiastically, waving with one hand, the other one firmly clutching the collar of Ludwig's blood-soaked uniform like it's a dog's.  
When the Prussian looks more closely, he can tell that Ludwig would not be able to stand on his own two feet if he were not held up by somebody. His glassy eyes are averted, fixed on the ground and his will is broken.

Gilbert feels like he is stepping into the lion's den as he approaches the group, stunned into silence.

He shudders when he feels a hand on his shoulder, the fingers digging through the fabric of his clothes into the skeletal body beneath. "Hello again, Gilbert" Ivan nearly coos, his breath smelling of smoke and burned bodies. It's a blessing that from this position, Gilbert cannot see his face, the wounds, the melted skin, the sunken eyes.

Arthur and Francis both glare at him from behind Alfred's back, their uniforms stained and heads and fingers bandaged.

"Look, we've caught your brother for you!" the American chats cheerfully, barely a scratch on him, and to Gilbert's chagrin shakes Ludwig like he's but a ragdoll in his grip, and everyone gives a mandatory laugh at the display.  
"Lied unconscious on the streets, almost trampled on him!"

"Will you hand him over?" Gilbert asks carefully, and is met with roaring laughter.

"Hand him over? Are you serious? The war has just ended _today_ and you think we'll give him right back to you, after everything you two have done?" Alfred says incredulously, and shakes his head as if that were the most absurd idea he's ever heard. "No no, after this we won't give him right back to the one who raised our little German friend into a killing machine!"

The burn of the sun and that of the ice in Gilbert's veins transitions perfect, as the understanding sets in.

"You will occupy Germany."

"Naturally. That's to be expected, is it not?" Francis taunts, his smirk probably the most infuriating of all. His hair is starting to grow back. "You cannot be trusted."

"They are right" somebody murmurs, and it takes Gilbert a second to match this whisper to the voice of his brother. "We cannot be trusted. We are depraved and must be supervised."

"See? Even your brother knows!" Alfred says, his grin nearly more irritating than the attitude he is displaying, and Gilbert cannot help but strain against the hold on his shoulder. He will not stand for this accusation, he has not raised Ludwig to be like this, he has not fed him those lies, that wasn't him, not his fault—

The next second, he cannot breathe because Ivan has taken him into a headlock. The Russian disapprovingly clicks his tongue and tugs. "Ah-ah. Don't be silly now. One move and I might just snap your neck. Like a rabbit's. We still need to decide what to do with you, violence will not help your cause."

"Oh Ivan, as refreshing as your protectiveness is, please do refrain from killing our friend, yes? It doesn't help your reputation either" Alfred reprimands, shaking Ludwig a little more until the German gives a tiny grunt of protest at the manhandling.  
Ivan stays silent at the provocation, but his hold loosens a little as if he contemplates letting Gilbert punch in Alfred's face. There is another conflict brewing here, something that has little to do with them, they just happened to be in the way.

If only Ludwig would look at him!

Bitter, Gilbert tries to relax against chokehold to not provoke the wolves in a sheep's clothing. Liberators, ha.

Another laugh fills the air when Alfred accidentally releases his grip on the collar and Ludwig instantly drops the ground like a sack of potatoes, his face hitting the dusty ground with a sickening scrunching sound.  
"God, he's really completely useless." Alfred kicks Ludwig in the side.

Of course, if you scramble his brains by shaking him you can't expect him to be all there; but Gilbert bites back that comment, because he knows that despite his easy-going tone and smile, Alfred is not to be messed with right now. Never provoke a victor; if Gilbert has learned anything, then it's that. One wrong word, one wrong word and blood will be spilled.

Apparently it has taken Gilbert to be the one at the mercy of another victor to understand how Feliks might have felt. Might have.  
Must've been worse for him still.

It's such a pathetic sight though, Ludwig lying on the ground and not even fighting to lift himself up, not even struggling against the mistreatment, not even trying to gain back some of his dignity.

It makes Gilbert oddly— furious.  
After everything he's done, he should at least own up to it instead of simply playing punching bag. He has slaughtered and oppressed with a grin, he has blown his own brains out, has kissed his mirror image, but now he's a shell. He lets Alfred kick him like he's not a person, lets the others laugh at him, and beyond one glare, Ludwig looks like he's not even registering it.

If Ludwig could shoot his own brother, if he could do that— then he should go down a fanatic, not a broken man! Doesn't matter if Gilbert doesn't know what he's been through in the months he has avoided him.

But Ludwig has given up, completely, and Gilbert can't even scream at him.

"Come on now, Prussian. We've got plans for the occupation to discuss and I feel you'll be a bit more…intelligible than your brother."

The war is over, and Germany has capitulated unconditionally.


	8. Under the Sun - Forward

**Yoo this is the last chapter of the WWII arc! :D In the next part there will be one more scene set during 1944, but it focuses mostly on what comes after the war.  
**

 **I wish you much fun with this chapter, and I would appreciate it very very much if you could give me some feedback! ;_;**

* * *

Control Council Law No. 46:

 _The Prussian State which from early days has been a bearer of_ _militarism_ _and_ _reaction_ _in_ _Germany_ _has_ _de facto_ _ceased to exist._

 **25th February, 1947**

Nobody speaks a word as they wait for the final announcement; somewhere in the background a clock ticks loudly the seconds, the occasional fragment of voices floats over to them, if Gilbert concentrates he bets he can hear the scraping sound of debris being carried away.

What a surreal experience it is, Gilbert thinks as he watches the other men of the room with their bandaged fingers and calm expression, to be the only party in a state of quiet despair. They are silent with the fatigue that overcomes a sated beast once it has feasted, and this time it is them who observe and he is the subject to their scrutiny. He refuses to let his gaze falter as they stare, even if his chest is hollow with hopelessness.

"It's still a curious sight" Francis muses aloud eventually, something akin to sympathy sparking in his eyes as he observes the Prussian, shifting his weight a little in his seat and the other nations in the room perk up at the words that break the uncomfortable silence. "To see you in such a subdued state."

The corners of Gilbert's mouth curl into a crooked smirk as he turns his head to the side, disbelief making his head feel funny and much too light, like hysteria. Despite his resolution, he cannot bear to look at any of them anymore, at their mandatory pitying gazes that mask their triumph.  
"It should be to your liking then that you will not have to endure the sight of me for much longer" he says and despises the bitterness that sneaks into his tone. He had wanted to sound confident, haughty, like his old self, anything that doesn't make him sound like this shaking mess he has been worn down to. But his fortunes long left him.

"Now now, it's a little early for grave statements like that, right?" Alfred offers with a nervous twitchy smile and forced optimism that Gilbert has no appreciation for. Even the others glare at him; the American looks around the room in a search for support and when he finds none in his allies, his shoulders sag and the smile withers. Nobody pays it any attention.  
They all know it. Pretense at a time like this is simply grotesque, and Gilbert finds a shred of comfort in the knowledge that even if the others too want him dead, they want him to part with the remnants of his dignity intact.

Just a few strokes of a pen negotiated between the other's bosses, and that will be Prussia's undoing. He's fought it with tooth and nail, like a snarling animal in its dying moments, but it has not amounted to anything of course. There's nothing to fight when the decision is already made. Only needed its legitimation still.

Can't his brain think of something else for the moment? Something not so sickening?

He has never been one for sentimentality but his head swims with memories of the centuries that stick to him like the residue of leaf gold, and it promises reprieve from the dreariness of this affair.  
So he might as well indulge, relive the glory of the past: his humble beginnings when he forgot his old tongue and accepted the robes of knights, when his sword was taller than he was, the light of the golden days as it cast a halo onto him – that was it, that was life, that was his time! And when he was accepted onto the stage of the leading powers of Europe, rubbing elbows with the old men! When his name was enough to make his enemies shudder!

…The images turn into the bloody days when Europe was an empire of rust and revolution and he stumbled upon that little idea, that tiny crying child that called him brother, and he picked it up.  
The first nail in his coffin. The beginning of the countdown that he so foolishly set off, thinking himself impervious to the insidious nature of death.

–God, not even his memories allow him a second of rest. A second of peace.  
He wishes he had spoken more to his old brothers before they faded; what does it feel like to become obsolete?

"Why are we even meeting for this?" he asks, more to distract himself from his thoughts than out of an actual interest in an answer. Put his mask back on, ignore the pounding headache and how the others' voice boom in his ears. Pins and needles. "Are you speculating whether I will turn to dust the second they've signed that piece of paper, because in that case I can spoil the ending for you: ideas don't die so quickly. And why did you not invite my brother to my little funeral party? Which is incredibly dull by the way."

Alfred and Ivan both open their mouths to speak, and the two nations glare at one another when they notice that their words clash as either believes it to be in his authority to answer these questions. Arthur and Francis both instantly avert their eyes as the atmosphere crackles with explosive tension, the Englishman's eyebrows rising high on his forehead as he purposefully sips loudly from his tea cup.  
At the startling noise the American rolls his eyes and makes a flippant hand gesture that signals that for once, he will _let_ Ivan take over the explanations.

Without as much as a glance towards his partner in crime, Ivan slowly smiles a predator's grin, as if his face weren't terrible on the eyes already these days.  
"Ludwig is with the humans, on _my_ order. Is it not fair that he bears witness not to our little meeting but the actual event? I believe it is a valuable lesson for him to learn, yes?" The Russian gives a deceptively innocent shrug of his broad shoulders at that. "And as for why we have come together, it's just the kind thing to do, to pay you our respects and preserve a sentiment of past camaraderie." His eyes are as cold as the ice of Siberia.

"Now isn't that touching" Gilbert mutters and his skin breaks when he bites down on his bottom lip. Sentiment of past camaraderie, respects, what a precious idea that is so devoid of any sincerity. Another farce to add to the parade of them that has been Gilbert's life for over a decade now. In this room full of people he is alone, a piece of meat that the spectators have already divided up into little mouthfuls to devour later.

"Don't taunt him, Ivan" Arthur berates and a look of confusion crosses the once soft and youthful features of the Russian, too big eyes blinking owlishly in their sunken sockets. "Taunt? My, I am not taunting him. We truly were comrades at points in time, yes? Things were going so well for us after the First World War that it would have been you cowering, had they not turned on me. I was not in favor of the dissolution either way, I would have been fine with reinstating Prussia. I would never lie about this just to mock him."  
"Naturally you'd be in favor of a left-leaning government that just happens to be in your sphere of influence!" Alfred says, attempting to veil his contempt with a casual conversational tone and he clicks his tongue. "You don't care about Gilbert, or this country. You merely wish to feed them your own brand of propaganda."  
Ivan's smile does not falter for even the blink of an eye, but his posture visibly goes rigid. "Mhm, it is not nice to project yourself onto others and throw around accusations, my American friend."

"Can you stop making this about yourselves for just one whole fucking second?!"

Everyone's eyes immediately snap back to Gilbert when he shouts this, curiosity and macabre sympathy reflected in their stares, so the Prussian buries his face in hands to not have to look them in the eyes anymore.

Blissful silence returns.

He hasn't forgiven him yet, but he wishes Ludwig were by his side.  
It's so awfully pathetic, to yearn for the presence of the one who betrayed him, to desire support when this is just the logical consequence of his actions. He demanded that Ludwig take his punishment with the same devotion he dealt it out, and he wouldn't want to be a hypocrite, would he?

But he is.  
He's a hypocrite who is so weak that he wishes the little brother that abandoned him to return to him, and a hypocrite who cannot even face his death with the posture of a soldier.

Gilbert closes his eyes, tears gathering at the corners that he refuses to shed. He can pinpoint the exact moment the last pen sets down its signature.

Prussia is, officially, no more.

.

.

.

He fought tooth and nail.

.

.

.

Gilbert's fingers tremble a little as he ties his necktie and straightens out the wrinkles in the old suit he's found among his belongings.

A quick glance in the mirror to ensure his appearance is acceptable for the public eye; the band-aids hide all of the smaller cuts and the discoloration from bruises is masked with makeup Francis curiously enough dropped off at his little broken home one day. It's not out of vanity or because Gilbert thinks his wounds could turn heads, it is because Americans like it nice and clean and if you wish to coax something out from them, you must be presentable, and Gilbert already has the handicap of his eye color.

He grabs his walking cane on the way out; might wring out some sympathy points for him, and it does help him walk. His legs still feel like somebody sliced them up in several poor attempts to saw them off, so every step is riddled with anguish. It's funny how he didn't even notice this when the war first ended.

What a wonderful breath of fresh, dust-polluted air, to be outside. There is nothing for him to do and the Allies still keep him away from Ludwig like they believe he could taint him any further, so he's mostly cooped up in that little apartment, trapped between peeling flower wallpapers and mind-numbing boredom, left to brew in the stench of his own guilt and failure.  
But today he has purpose once more and if he succeeds— if they succeed, then at least his future is secured.

The Prussian's limbs tingle with anxious anticipation when he allows himself to entertain that notion, so despite the stabbing pain in his legs he accelerates his pace, straightening his back, ready to soar like the eagle of his own flag.  
Just has to be careful to not fly too close to the sun again, never never again.

But ah, there is the human he is looking for.

"It has been such a long time, Gilbert. Ever since they committed such a crime against our government and I fled the country I was afraid you would be no more when I return, or that they so twisted you that I could not recognize you any longer; your sight is a true relief to me."

A weak smile blooms of Gilbert's lips at these words, unable to express his own gladness because if this man had seen him just a year prior, he would not speak such warm words. But he does feel glad, happy even. The human is alive and—well, he's alive. That is something. Not something all that many people can say of themselves these days.

Gilbert nearly feels self-conscious in this dirty and worn suit, even if anything else would be odd after a war. It might be his former boss, but it is one he was fond of towards the end, and maybe it is nostalgia warping his vision a little but it's a good feeling to have him back.  
Particularly with the agenda they have set for themselves, discussed in a handful of letters.

"I was still…changed. And I remain so, for the time being" he admits, feeling he owes the other at least a scrap of the despicable truth. To be accepted so readily as somebody he is not would make him feel filthier than he already is. He does remember his virtues, even if their purpose was twisted.  
"I never quite understood the nations, but I would suppose that it is to be expected that you change when something of this magnitude occurs. As terrible as it is. We can only hope it will work the other way around as well – and that you stand with me should be testament to your devotion to democracy" the human responds, his tone not one Gilbert can quite decipher, but it's a small relief the man is willing to excuse it and turn it into something optimistic. How fortunate that the human can't hear the protest raging in Gilbert's chest and can't see how difficult it is to swallow the words engraved in his mind.

Optimism is something they need dearly in times like these. His blood rushes in his ears as anxiety claws at his heart – he wants to believe so badly, so much. He wants this so much, so oblivion can't touch him anymore and that fucking parasite finally shuts up.

Around them the city is still more ruin than anything; women carrying around debris to clean up the streets, soldiers keeping an eye that lingers too long on the proceedings, the square too big with its missing buildings.

The gray sky stretching above them is too large to comprehend, so wide and empty that Gilbert fears for a ridiculous moment that the void will swallow him.

"I hope this will work."

"No need for hope. We fought these men and their vile ideology, we collected evidence against them, that should prove that we are more than dedicated to our constitution and have a right to exist. And I am sure you relentlessly appealed to your brother to keep this sickness from befalling him."

"I…have."

"Then we should be able to prevail. Surely the Americans will be reasonable."

His pulse hammers under his skin, but Gilbert wants to believe in these words so badly. He knows Alfred and he knows Americans, and reasonable is maybe not the first word that comes to mind in relation to them, but the human is right.  
They didn't start this.

Prussia could be reinstated as an independent government, the chance to go back to how things were before, to how things are _supposed_ to be.

"We will meet another nation there, America himself. You'll recognize him on first sight – blond, blue eyes, square glasses. He may come across as inappropriately friendly and casual, so be sure to not cringe. He's our best bet."

"Is he reasonable?"

.

.

.

Gilbert doesn't even really remember how that entire affair went down in detail. There's distant memories buried somewhere, but the past two years feel like they happened to somebody else. The images flashing by, but never to stay, slipping through his fingers like smoke.

Maybe he'll recall them once this haze has left his head. Feels like his skull is filled with nothing but cotton.

.

.

.

"What are you doing?"

It's the first words they exchange since Gilbert's little quarantine was lifted, the first words since that initial meeting back in May when Gilbert had fought against Ivan's grip to scream and kick at the zombie Ludwig had become – there is _so much_ to say, things that have accumulated and piled up since the swastika first stuck to their arms, collected over endless ruminations as he held Ludwig's bleeding body - so much boiling in Gilbert's heart and making him feel ill with nerves that in the end these are the only words that he can give. Completely inane. Trivial, like they are strangers.

Ludwig seems smaller when malnourished, with atrophied muscle and without his pretty uniform; it doesn't help that he has sat down on a low brick wall lining the side of a street and thus has to look up to his brother through his bangs.

The second the German recognizes who it is that has approached him, his eyes widen and he quickly lowers his head in shame like he did as a child when he was caught doing something he shouldn't have done. His shoulders are shaking.

Unspoken words hover between them, choking—

"I'm learning to play the guitar."

Without looking at Gilbert, he lifts the instruments in his arms a little and grips around the neck of it to press down on the strings, but the tone that follows is distorted and both of them flinch at the sound.  
Ludwig lets out a laugh tinged with embarrassment and a strange undertone of sadness. "Evidently, I am no good at it yet."

Hesitantly Gilbert takes his seat next to his brother and watches his fingers as he tries to adjust their placement, the moment so surreal that he refrains from questioning this. Instead he simply supervises and tries not to think too much.

Ludwig tries again and again to make the instrument obey him and let out a succession of pleasant notes, but it is all to no avail and after a little while he curses and drags his hand away from the strings; the skin of his fingertips is red and raw, deep grooves pressed into the flesh due to the lack of protecting callus.

"You really have only started learning, haven't you" Gilbert tuts quietly and Ludwig nods obediently. "I thought it would be easier than this, but the strings always cut deep after just a short while. I still need to build up the callus again after I…"

Ludwig trails off, and they both know how the sentence goes on.

 _After I ate my own fingers._

Ah. Not a very appetizing topic for their first conversation. Like everyone else the Prussian is plagued by the constant stab of hunger, but for some reason that sensation suddenly fades.

For a while they are content to watch the passersby, the men in their suits, women in plain dress, soldiers with unconcealed suspicion. It's getting late and yet pairs and loners still drift by like the soft breeze is carrying them.  
Footfalls, rubble crunched underneath heels, chatter.

It's a beautiful day out today.

"Are we going to talk about this."

This.

The past years.  
Chewed fingers and followed orders.  
The house in East Prussia.  
What happened in the months they were apart.

The scarred skin of Gilbert's forehead from the bullet hole.

"No."

Ludwig's answer is instantaneous and absolute. Stubbornly the man resumes his practice, his teeth gritted against the sting of strings cutting into his fingers, and Gilbert feels like he was punched in the gut; takes some self-control to not growl and unleash his accusations.

Ludwig cries silently, just sobbing occasionally, a broken hiccup sound that sounds utterly wretched. It makes Gilbert think of dogs left out in the rain and howling for their lost masters.

It's such a shame, that Ludwig is his Achilles heel.

He reaches out, fingers twitching in his reluctance, then he places his hand on Ludwig's bowed head and ruffles his hair. Just like back then.  
–Okay if Ludwig will not speak about it. Maybe he needs to build up calluses first before he can. That is acceptable. Gilbert has never asked anything unreasonable of him, has he?

He has always been a good brother, hasn't he?

"Done already?" he mocks quietly when Ludwig wipes away his tears, and Ludwig attempts to chuckle, but the noise comes out all weird. "What are you even trying to learn to play guitar for?"

"Don't… don't laugh when I tell you. I am learning it for Alfred."

Laughing is the last thing that would cross his mind - Gilbert feels his face pull into a heavy scowl before the words have even fully registered, remembering how Alfred had dragged Ludwig around by the collar and how Germany had gone from parroting an Austrian to parroting the Americans, but his brother is smiling.

"It's not like you think, brother. I—I haven't eaten in a while, and while I need no food to survive, my body still aches for some nourishment. I thought about how to get my hands on food when Ivan always seems to get to the supplies before me. And then I thought about what you would do."

The Prussian's brow furrows in suspicion. "And playing the guitar was your conclusion?"

Ludwig waves it off, shaking his head. "The conclusion I came to was that if the allies take the food from you, you would try not to get to the supplies faster than them and exhaust yourself in an exercise in futility, you would come up with a plan to gain access to _their_ resources" Ludwig explains, and for the first time,  
their eyes meet.

The familiarity is heart-wrenching— that, or the knife twisted in his back has reached his heart after all.

"I don't think wooing them with a serenade will get you far."

A sly little grin pulls at Ludwig's lips. "Alfred and Ivan kept me very busy, but I learned some things about them, and I know that Alfred tends to be more generous. I will play him a few songs on the guitar to put him into a good mood, and then I will ask for some food from him. I just need to learn to play this damn instrument first…"

The guitar makes another disagreeable sound.

"Give me the guitar" Gilbert says with a sigh and even if the German blinks in confusion, he slowly hands over the instrument. Under closer inspection, it's been a while since it was properly maintained, but it should still be fine to play it; somebody at least tuned it properly before they let Ludwig have it.

"I have always been a faster learner than you and I have a penchant for musical instruments. Most importantly though… I still have calluses."

No more talking.

.

.

.

"Isn't it heartwarming to see you two together once more, playing such nice songs! How surprising it is that you can produce something so pleasant too. I could be cruel now and elaborate on my surprise, but I am not Ivan. So here, just take these sandwiches. I didn't want them anymore anyway."

.

.

.

There was something precious about these evenings, something fragile. And neither of them has ever been known to be tender.

.

.

.

 **26th February, 1947**

He can't sleep.

It's been hours since he threw himself onto his bed and entangled himself in the sheets, pulling the rough fabric over his face and nearly suffocating himself with it. Even if none of them touched the alcohol Ivan took along to the funeral, Gilbert feel nauseous and numbed.  
In the darkness of his room his only company was his own heart beat and the relentless onslaught of thoughts, of fragments of memories and reminders of his deeds. A merciless maelstrom that pulled at his sanity, tearing it away bit by bit until he was left raw and bleeding, a pathetic bundle that does not deserve the name of Prussia.

 _Oh, but Prussia doesn't exist anymore._

What would Old Man Fritz think, could he see him right now? Would he blame the others, or would he turn his back on him, the one he had entrusted his beloved kingdom to and who subsequently drove it to ruins?  
Definitely the latter, but prior to this day Gilbert had always found comfort in the idea that maybe the blame could still be put onto somebody else.

But he cannot run any longer from his own responsibility and the darkness, a place he thought he could always find refugee and even peace in, has become his prison. It forces him to revisit all these times that he said the wrong thing, encouraged the wrong trait, shared the wrong wisdom, was too harsh—

 _"It was I who crushed that Danish fool, and Germany knows to admire that. He knows that true power lies in military, not marriage."_

He forced the child nation through training with the human soldiers no matter the weather, unmoved by tears of exhaustion until little Ludwig collapsed, and only then he'd relent. And then he'd wait until he recovered to do it all over again. There were always books left to read, weapons to master.

 _"What did I tell you was a value you'd do well to remember!"  
"…Obedience."_

The other empires would know no more mercy than him, so it was his duty to raise a man who would be filled to the brim with determination and the heart to fight until his last breath. A proper soldier, an invincible force so Ludwig would never have to know fear; just how Gilbert had grown, but without the flaws in the system. It's kinder to grow up with a brother.

 _"You taught me well."_

When Ludwig's limbs would not attach themselves to the body, he patiently sewed them all back on, enduring Ludwig's screams of pain that grew quieter each time. Ludwig accused him of lacking morals back then in a flare of temper, and Gilbert had replied that he lives by strict principles - but he knows when such things can be a hindrance on the path to a greater goal.

 _–he clung to the rigid orders like the boy Gilbert had raised him to be_

But hadn't he tried to teach Ludwig to be a leader? Hadn't he tried to raise a man who knows what is best and doesn't act out of a sheer desire for approval, who differentiates between order and madness?

 _"and I felt so disgusted with myself at first because even though I knew it was wrong, they made me feel so powerful, it just felt so good, so unbelievably good"_

Ludwig had known, so clearly Gilbert didn't fail completely, but—

Ludwig did not come see him today after everything was said and done.

Does he blame him too?

Does he too try to force the blame onto another so he will not have to carry that burden? Does he avoid him now so Gilbert cannot remind him that they killed together and sang the praises in unison, that they both bowed to that man? That Ludwig was always quicker to give in?

Is that why he never speaks of what transpired? He always says what a terrible person he is, but does he know?

Gilbert needs answers before he fades, and so his thoughts keep racing.

.

.

.

At the break of dawn, the former Prussian throws back the covers and steps out of bed, driven by a nearly sadistic desire. Without a moment wasted on admiring the morning light or gathering his scattered thoughts, he puts together an outfit for the day, careful to not rip the fabric in his haste. He nearly forgets his cane as he rushes out the door, but thankfully the excruciating pain creeping up his leg reminds him.

His feet barely seem to hit the boards of the stairs, but the stairwell echoes with the loud noise in the tranquil morning hours. His neighbors will leave notes of complaint for all of this later, but what does that matter? Not like he will live here much longer.

With burning purpose Gilbert weaves his way through the streets, past ruins and empty lots that once housed life but crumble in neglect, walks even further until he reaches houses that were mostly spared by the bombs or already repaired enough to look fancy.  
Alfred recently offered this place to Ludwig as if it were his to give in the first place and Gilbert has not had the opportunity to visit often, what's with his impeding execution so to speak. Keeps a man busy and all. Still he recognizes the house and his finger presses down on the bell button next to the fresh plaque that reads 'Beilschmidt', immediately pushing his way into the house the second he hears the buzz and the door yields.

Ludwig lives on the second floor and if Gilbert were not half-crazy right now, that would have posed an issue. But the way things are, he climbs the stairs with ease and does not even need to catch his breath and wheeze when he reaches his brother's threshold.

So early in the morning and already Ludwig is impeccably dressed. His suit is clean and new, his face washed, wounds hidden, and hair styled, and just for a second, Gilbert sees him in his black uniform. Just serves to make him feel sicker, wonderful.

"Brother, why…"

Ignoring the guilt-addled question, the man strides right past Ludwig into the apartment. It's pretty bare still, but the wallpaper is fresh; nothing is peeling off, nothing in here is broken and out of place anymore. Ludwig has made a little home for himself and himself alone.

"Nice of you to come visit me, brother! Why yes! I apologize that I have acted like you are already dead and didn't even try to speak to you yesterday even though that must have been a terrible ordeal for you!" Gilbert exclaims, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can think, shrill and piercing even to him.  
Ludwig freezes in the doorframe, hunching his shoulders, lowering his head—

"Look at me at least!"

Ludwig's head snaps back up at the command, his eyes wide and strangely fearful when they meet his red ones; his mouth is pressed into a thin line as if he were holding something back, something not as subdued as the words that follow.

"I am sorry, brother."

"Are you?"

"Of course I am! Do you think it doesn't hurt me too?! I never wanted for any of this to happen, I hoped it wouldn't get to this, but— the decisions are not up to me anymore" Ludwig admits with comforting sincerity, and finally he closes the door to grant them a little bit of privacy.  
Shouting is still ill-advised probably, but as long as there is the pretense that they are on their own, that is fine with Gilbert.

Leaving Ludwig without an answer, Gilbert inspects the apartment a little more, peeking through doors left ajar to scout of the place, discovering Ludwig's room tucked away in the back of it. It feels like intruding in a way, even if technically this is not so rude of him in their case.  
The bedroom is as bare as the rest, though the existing furnishing is obviously intact and new.

"Ludwig."

In the middle of the room, Gilbert turns around to face his brother. His Achilles heel.

"We're going to talk about it."

Ludwig's facial expression remains nearly impassive to the untrained eye, but Gilbert notices the way his eyes narrow and his jaw clenches.

"No."

Such an absolute answer.

"Yes we are, Ludwig. Whether you want to or not we're going to fucking talk about it."

"You can't decide that for me" Ludwig immediately bites back, that temper of his breaking through the mask of disgusting passiveness he wears around the allies. "I see no point in talking about it. It's over, and I fucked up everything. It was I who deserved death and you got it instead. End of story."

Anyone else would have recoiled at such an honest confession of raw emotion; Gilbert knows this tactic well, trying to disarm your opponent by readily admitting to everything in the hopes that it will keep the other from trying to pry further, but he's not one to fall for such tricks.  
In frustration he pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. Bastard thinks he can get out of this just like that.

"Soon it's been two whole years! Two years of nothing but silence! I think I've given you enough time! You shot me for saving my people, and you didn't even come to me when I just had my state taken away from me, even when you too must feel the repercussions of that, the sheer terror these people are experiencing as they flee— I think you owe me this much! You owe it to me to talk about this!" Gilbert growls, not letting himself be intimidated when Ludwig takes a warning step forward; Ludwig will not do anything because hurt flashes in these blue eyes. Words can be so much more effective than a slap when Ludwig is concerned.

"…Fine. Fine. We can talk. But if I refuse to speak, you will have to accept that."

Defeated, the blond man relaxes his posture just the slightest bit, keeping his sharp gaze lowered as he awaits his trial at the hands of his brother.

And now that Gilbert finds himself with the opportunity to strike once more, a moment in which Ludwig is vulnerable and cannot deflect him, when he can finally pour out his heart—  
the words just fail him all over.  
Panic rises in his chest like a toxic gas and to calm himself he tightly grips his walking cane like it is a weapon, dragging it close to his chest as he wracks his brain for something to say.

There's got to be something—

"Why did you leave me lying there?"

In the end, that was probably the most pressing concern on his mind and Ludwig flinches visibly, looking as if he took offense to this question, even though it is perfectly justified to want to know just how Gilbert had deserved that.

"I didn't leave you lying there. I couldn't get back to you."

"Couldn't, or just wouldn't, Ludwig? Did you maybe just not want to give your traitor brother that honor?! I can take the truth you know—"

" _Halt den Mund, Gilbert_!" Ludwig shouts, cradling his head in his hands and Gilbert is so taken aback by hearing his name that his mouth automatically snaps shut, eyes trained on his brother who seems to be shaking all of a sudden. Ludwig never used his name, never. At least he doesn't remember it ever happening.  
"Just shut up. That is not how it went at all. After I pulled the trigger I was terrified of what I had done because of course this what the rules dictated but it felt so wrong, and I couldn't stay around because I felt ready to break down. Call it my wake up call, or whatever, but it broke something. I charged ahead again, and ran straight into Ivan!" Ludwig takes one of his hands away from his face and runs the other over his hair, revealing the desperate smile on his face. "That's when I last bit off a finger, and before you ask: I didn't even feel them anymore anyway. Hardly a loss. He found a labor camp to fit me in anyway, so all it did was make Ivan make morbid jokes about it."

"I didn't—"

"Quite changes your perspective to sit in one of those yourself…! I don't quite remember how I ended up making it out of there; maybe Ivan thought it's more entertaining to see me run a little or maybe it helps that bullets are only lethal for periods of time, doesn't matter. The way back to Germany is pretty blurry too, and I still felt bad for having fled instead of fighting because it means I gave up on the system! So there's that—!"

Gilbert still clings to his cane, a sense of shame crawling up his spine for all the accusations he's formulated in his head on the way here, when in the end, at least that was not Ludwig's fault. Rumors of what happens to those captured by the Russians had reached him too and he does not want to imagine him like that, even if the rage in his chest is far from quelled – just momentarily suspended as horror briefly takes over the emotional landscape.  
Ludwig meanwhile grits his teeth, likely lost in the memories of that time as he begins to lightly scratch at his wrists.

"Could have told me that instead of letting me believe that you didn't think me deserving of getting dragged from the battlefield."

"I didn't want to talk about it. And now I'm done with it. So if you please…"

" _Done_ with it? Is that you verdict over it all? Over everything that happened? Seriously?"

"Seriously" Ludwig hisses, his nails leaving little pink crescents on his wrists.

Gilbert's guilt shrivels up and he substitutes a scream of frustration and anger with hitting the ground with his cane. "Is that why you still walk around looking like a damn Nazi?!"

With a disgusted expression Ludwig stares at him, the forbidden word finally entering the room, and Ludwig touches his slicked back hair, knowing exactly what Gilbert is alluding to, and an angry glint flares in his eyes. "I've always worn my hair like this, it has absolutely _nothing_ to do with Nazis. And you can't blame me for my _face_."

With these words Ludwig stomps towards the desk behind Gilbert and forcefully pulls out one of its drawers, rummaging through its contents until he pulls out a piece of paper. Wordlessly he shoves it right into his brother's face until he takes it from him.

"I earned my _Persilschein_ just like you did. That's all to be said on this topic. I'm officially denazified, to use the terminology of the Potsdam conference, so yes, it's done. I take full responsibility for the atrocities I committed and will help move us all forward. That's all we can do."

Gilbert still stares at the ticket in his hands, the black letters proclaiming indeed that Ludwig 'Beilschmidt' is no war criminal and is therefore _clean_. Hard to imagine, when even the dead man is still full of that filth, and it is quite curious just how badly Ludwig wishes to change the topic of conversation.

"There's a whole lot more you could do" Gilbert murmurs as he hands Ludwig the ticket back and Ludwig's grip is so tight that the worthless paper crumples in his hands. "You could face the facts, you could have fucking talked to me. Pretending like none of this happened isn't going to change anything, the system you're working with will remain as utterly rotten as we are!"

"I know."

Ludwig's knuckles show white, but he has himself enough under control to put it back in his drawer instead of ripping the thin paper in his large and rough hands.

"Of course I know that! But what am I supposed to do, brother? Tell me, because I cannot think of anything! There is nothing to do, Ivan and Alfred are starting to realize too how completely impossible denazification is! If they remove everyone involved with the regime they will be left with hardly anyone with any qualifications left, because everyone was to some degree complicit in this! We all have blood on our hands and we can never wash it off! I allowed these ideas in! You can feel it too, I know it, that parasite we carry in us, can hear what it whispers to us! It will never die, because ideologies simply do _not_ die! They fester and make us their homes and we will never ever get them out again!  
We can no longer be trusted, and even if America and the Soviets cannot be trusted either, they at least keep us in check for the time being so it doesn't overflow again!  
We can only hope the parasite stays dormant and never rises to the surface again, we can only try to move on from it and hope that one day this is all forgotten. We must move on and _never look back_."

For a split moment Ludwig's blue eyes are once again clouded by that glassy sheen of fanaticism and his chest is heaving from the effort I must have taken to get these words out. His broad frame trembles like he's just a tiny leaf holding on to its branch with all its might against the storm; this is what a hopeless man looks like.

As much as Gilbert wants to keep raving and shouting at his brother, as much as he wants to spit vitriol because all of this is so wrong and unfair and he hates to see his brother like this—  
he stays silent instead.

The words Wels once spoke on that fateful day in 1933 were a double edged sword. Ideas don't die so easily.

"If you may excuse me, I need to leave. Alfred must already be waiting for me, and there's another meeting with Ivan scheduled as well that will now be delayed" Ludwig says, even though he doesn't look in any condition to go anywhere. And still he stumbles towards the door until Gilbert stretches out his hand and grabs Ludwig by the sleeve of his suit.

"I can meet with Ivan in your stead. I am sure you remember what I told you." It feels like it's not him speaking these words, like his tongue is working against him, but he can't be angry when a look of pure relief crosses Ludwig's features.

"You don't hate me?" he asks, hopeful.

Hate? Does he hate Ludwig?

How absurd that this was never a possibility that ever occurred to Gilbert, not even in the deepest pits of his despair.

"I haven't forgiven you, but I have never hated you. I've given you too much for that. And hey, I'm officially dead now. Might as well use the time I have left to irritate our favorite Russian a little. Not like you can play spineless punching bag for both of these guys at once anyway" Gilbert responds hesitantly, trying to show his likeable self (the one Ludwig liked, anyway) again and not the bitter mess he's turned into.

There's a selfish desire in there as well, he thinks, even as Ludwig smiles shakily against the jab and embraces him shortly and mutters apologies on his way out.

Even if there is a truth in Ludwig's words, Gilbert can't move on to anything. He can only look back on the past and see his mistakes, because there is no future for him. All that is left for him is to hold on to existence and relevance for as long as he can. Like vermin.  
Or like an old man who refuses to acknowledge that his time has come and gone, whose bitterness keeps him anchored in this world.

.

.

.

"Oh? Gilbert? Where have you left your brother? It was him who was meant to meet with me, yes. I don't recall asking for you" Ivan greets him, his eyes crinkling in genuine amusement as he walks towards the old Prussian, his arms wide open.

Gilbert stands perfectly straight and his face is a stone-cold mask as he fixes his red eyes on the approaching Russian, trying not to wince or flinch at the sense of dread twisting his insides.

"I am afraid you will have to be content dealing with me. From this day on, I will be the one to turn to in matters concerning your zone of occupation as a representative sent by Germany. I look forward to working with you."

It feels like they are back in the East, Gilbert peeking out through the curtains of his home and spotting the unwavering beast of Russia lurking just outside. Waiting patiently until he presents himself as the meal. Always waiting for him.

Ivan smiles.

"Welcome to the family."


	9. Flawed Concept

**Hoooo, I return to you!  
And I've got good news: first of all, I finished the last chapter of the story today so you won't have to fear this will end uncompleted. Furthermore, and I think I already mentioned this in the past but I can't really remember, I have already written two pieces for a collection of drabbles/One-Shots related to this story! I should upload the first of them soon, so stay tuned~  
**

 **To this chapter:  
The beginning part takes place during WWII still, warnings include: blood, injury, an instance of auto-cannibalization (sorta?), and death. It's a lot less gore-y from that part onwards though.  
Have fun reading! I love reading your reviews~**

* * *

 **? ? 1944?**

Cold wind nips and pricks at Ivan's sensitive skin even though winter has not yet descended on them, or at least he doesn't think it has. It's so difficult to keep track of such simple things these days and it loses its significance when General Winter will side with him one last time anyway. Berlin is only months away.  
The thought warms him a little against the freezing air.

For a while the only company he has is the rattling of the train, the scraping of wheels on rail tracks, the groaning and hissing of the ill-constructed vehicle that is used to transporting cattle, and his own wheezing breaths. His eyelids threaten to fall shut with such a comforting and steady background noise, but whenever that falling sensation overcomes him, he jerks himself awake; sleep can wait until he has brought his cargo to its destination. So he keeps himself busy by humming songs of victory to himself.  
His lips crack when he smiles at the sound of a drawn-out moan of pain. He already feared Germaniya would not open his eyes again until the train stopped and while the slow dawning of terror on his face as he finds himself among the common scum would be an interesting sight, Ivan wouldn't want him to miss out on part of the experience.

"Welcome back, Germaniya."

Blue eyes crack open, unseeing and glossed over while the man coughs out some of the blood still clogging his lungs. Perched upon an empty crate, Ivan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and tilting his head to the side as he props up his chin on one of his hands; he watches the German slowly acclimate to the sensation of being alive with infinite patience, waiting for him to return to the world of the living proper. It's such an interesting process to view, really. Damn satisfying too, to observe the flinches of agony flit across that face, those little twitches of a body protesting against the abuse it endured. (But unaware of what is yet to come.)

"Where are you taking me, Russia?" the German eventually croaks, voice raspy from disuse and speech slurred by the fog left behind by the temporary death. The empty look in his eyes tells Ivan that he already knows where they are heading, but still he says "Nowhere you won't like it."

The wet coughing noise is what Ivan figures is the closest thing to a laugh Germaniya can manage right now.  
For a split second it seems so casual; two old comrades sitting together, joking good-naturedly about the horrors witnessed, laughter easing the pains –

but they are comrades no more, _sie waren nie Genossen_ , and Ivan thinks of the scorched earth and his burned flesh, of the massacres and the maddening hunger gnawing at him that was deliberately dealt to his people by German soldiers, and he really needs to stop thinking about it or he will see nothing but his plundered and destroyed cities and villages, and then he cannot guarantee he will allow Germaniya to pollute the air with another single malodorous breath.

"You will feel right at home, yes. I promise. You will just be on the other side for once" Ivan says cheerfully thus, swallowing back the acid for when he will march on enemy soil. Then Germaniya will learn what his wrath truly feels like.  
The German closes his eyes as if overcome with a wave of pain at these words, his breath coming in short pants as he strains his upper body in an effort to sit up straighter against the wall of the train. Tough luck with broken legs that refuse to heal, but it's fascinating to watch in the very same way watching a bug is when it is turned onto its back and kicks its little legs and you know it won't succeed. (And then you crush it, and the stain it leaves behind is curious too.)

" _G_ _lavnoye upravleniye lagerey_ it was, right" Germany says as if inquiring about the weather, with some effort raising a trembling and blood-crusted hand to his face to chew on it absently. "All the same, we are. Which one of us doesn't have camps. It's repulsive."

A white-hot flash of rage surges through Ivan's veins and the smile he wears freezes – he is. he is not like him.  
He's seen the extermination camps in Poland, he has bled with his people, starved with them, threw himself back into the lines just to die to keep the enemy away from his heart Moscow out of love, and the camps aim to better through labor and not for death.  
He picked up the broken ones Germany subjugated and abandoned; Ivan brought them all into Russia's embrace, poor broken Elizaveta, Feliks, even fickle Irina, all of them are welcome in his family, because his family knows forgiveness and warmth.  
Once upon a time there was a place for Ludwig and his brother too, and they thanked him by starting a war with the sole goal of his destruction.

They are not the same.

So he replies "Hardly, Germaniya! I could never stoop so low." and Ludwig has the decency left to flinch at the phrasing.  
"We work under the same orders though. Get rid of the parasites of the society. Rather kill yourself than letting yourself be captured, so make sure there's always at least one bullet left for yourself. Run, and your comrades are obligated to remove you. And at the end of that path the goal is a new human" the German mutters dejectedly, as if he were trying to convince himself, a last hope that somebody is just as repugnant as he is. But he has fallen so deep that nobody can measure up to his atrocities. Ivan does not need to say it, that all these are evils Germany forced upon him. That Ivan is not Stalin, that he has a mind beyond orders.  
(Bloody purges and famine and shooting him because you think you own him does not gain you Ivan's love, not even when he feels that tempting pull of propaganda tugging at his heart. He's too old to fall for it so easily; the resentment is alive and the wounds in his flesh still ache, it is just buried under crushing hatred for other men.)

"Why aren't you killing me" Ludwig says tonelessly into the silence that stretches between them, the only emotional inflection a hiss of complaint when he puts pressure on his left arm. Ivan raises his eyebrows in mild surprise; "Why, are you giving up?"  
Germaniya opens his eyes again, gaze piercing through the hull of the wagon up to the heavens in what can only be assumed to be a silent prayer. His lips form a bitter smile when he stops biting into his own hand for the moment. "I can't. Can't give up, ever. I've made my decision. The only thing that can stop me from going out there again and again and _again_ is death. As soon as my legs can carry me and arms work again I will try to kill you, because I must."

Ivan pauses, drumming his fingers on the skin of his face; his senses are so dulled that he doesn't even feel the pain when he touches an open wound. "My, what a twist! Are you asking me to kill you?"

"I don't know" Ludwig says and his head lolls to the side to his shoulder, sounding somewhere between misery and death so he's half-way there at least. "I don't know. I am so tired. But I can't— stop. I must follow the order because if I don't follow them now on the basis that I know it's wrong, then why didn't I disobey earlier, then why am I— it's too— And I am so _sick_ of it…!"  
A strange strangled sob leaves the German's mouth, and in his attempt to properly suffocate the pathetic sound he bites down on his hand again and.

"Shit. Shit shit shit shit"

Gross. There goes that part of the finger. Grotesque. But then, Ivan has seen people swallow the meat instead of spitting it out again. (And it's fitting the German word is _Fleisch_ – what a visceral language.)

"Did Prussia already flee? I did not find him, but it is not like him to abandon his home" Ivan inquires without any further regards to this incident, because that is really the only thing he cares about. He doesn't want to hear these ramblings that sounds nearly human, he wants to know about what Gilbert has been up to. Königsberg is burning.  
Ludwig's face loses the last traces of color and he looks like he's going to throw up, but he heaves on an empty stomach. "Shot him" is the curt reply. "Shot him because I found out he turned his back on—no. no. he. He helped his people. And I shot him for it into the back of his head and since he is not with me, he must be on the run."

The Russian does not respond instantly, and instead mulls over this.  
Shot him.  
Shot his own brother because it is what the order dictates.

"…Ah, but don't you love your brother?"

"I _do_! but—my mind is… I forget who my friends are now, sometimes."

Most of the memories Ivan has of the German brothers is of them together, from the beginning to this day, and when on their own then rarely far apart and from the outside it was something that Ivan admits he was envious of. Even when they shed every pretense of humanity and dwelled in the pits of hell, they dwelled there together, they remained loyal to one another. (Until they somehow didn't.)  
It doesn't— make sense, does it? It doesn't quite make sense.  
Siblinghood is what he has always yearned for in the long and silent winters but even with sisters, what he really desired was somehow always out of reach, and now that he is finally building his own family from the maltreated east of Europe he's thought— he would have something like that too.  
but obviously family has flaws after all.  
Even with brothers like this, force and violence will always be aspects for creatures like them, and that is sobering and bone-crushingly disappointing and he somehow wishes he hadn't heard and hadn't asked, but at the same time he knows he must not feel bad anymore over the things he has done to convince his family to come together.  
And it's a reminder to always be wary, for love is no guarantee for loyalty and there can always be knives at your back from your beloved.

Bittersweet, a loss and a relief at once.

Ignoring the sudden sting of pain in his limbs, Ivan gets up from his seat and stumbles over to the German, crouching down next to the body very slowly so he won't fall over as he cradles Ludwig's face in his hands, relishing in the brief flash of terror and pain in those blue eyes when he forces him to look him in the face. Soothingly he brushes his thumbs over the dried blood and the bruised skin. The gentle gesture is one last token of the camaraderie they once nearly shared before he does the inevitable; the screams of his people ringing in his ears tell him to treat this person with nothing but utter disgust and brutality and he will not deny them much longer.

"To answer your question: I will not let you die a martyr. It wouldn't be fair, yes? If you drifted away into oblivion and us others are left with the destruction you've wrought. You don't get to kick off a war and not carry its weight! You understand that, right? Everything that will happen to you is deserved. It's an eye for an eye. That is fair."  
Ludwig's eyes cast a glance to the side as his eyelids flutter shut, so Ivan digs his fingers into the sensitive skin until the blue snaps back to him, turmoil and fever reflected in them. The fire isn't stamped out yet.  
"I understand" the German mutters, defeated.

"What are you feeling right now?" the Russian asks with a smile.

"Shame. Because I shot my own brother and still I resent him for what he's done and. Because I— because of every— I'm sca—

…I am so tired. Just tired."

He cannot even say it.

"I will do you a favor, yes? I will help you sleep. And when you wake up, you won't see anything of my vengeance. You will feel it! But not see! And you will be well-rested for work" Ivan says sweetly, patting Ludwig's cheeks once and then he pushes himself up again, and Ludwig watches with resigned despair as Ivan picks up the heavy metal pipe he left next to his crate. He knows what is to come and for just one short second, that split second, something akin to sympathy constricts Ivan's chest.

"Gute Nacht, Ludwig."

Berlin is only months away, and the taste of revenge is already on Ivan's tongue; he will deliver his people the retribution they seek and he will pursue it with every fiber of his being. An eye for a damn eye. The noise of tanks in death's cauldron, the repulsive smell of burning flesh and millions dead. Millions starved, shot, tortured, all because somebody thought they are somehow less. Disposable.

The burning rage and blinding pain that slumbered for the few minutes of their interactions resurface with new intensity, flooding his system until Ivan forgets himself in the swirl of hurt and cuts.

He raises the pipe high over his head, his arms straining under its weight because of his malnourishment, and then without hesitation he smashed it down on Ludwig's skull, not even wincing at the squelching sound.

Blood splatters his face and his clothes, red as his army, red as Germany will soon be.

"Sleep well."

.

.

.

 **July, 1948**

"Did you want to starve him?"

Ivan tears his eyes away from the sight of the planes overhead to spare his companion a side-glance, face marred with a frown at the accusation.  
"No no… What would that be for? I've told you, no more hard feelings! I said, 'an eye for an eye', and that is what I got. I am no longer interested in punishing either of you" he responds lightly, and so it's not entirely truthful maybe but it's close enough. This blockade is truly not aimed at the Germans; they are just the chessboard pieces to be moved around because he doesn't need to care about their lives. (And he doesn't like using hunger as a method anymore, anyway. His own stomach growls still.)

Gilbert simply scoffs and kicks at a pebble with his good leg, leaning heavily on his walking cane. "I've got very little reason to believe that, Russia."

"Please Gilbert, do call me Ivan again! We've been working together for a year now, and I keep telling you it's fine because we're partners, not enemies, there's no need to be so wary of me. I'm trying to help you, am I not?" the Russian chides and takes a step closer, placing his hand on Gilbert's bony shoulder – not the left one because that one is still healing. Ivan would say he overdid it, but then, 25 million are 25 million and somebody's got to pay for that.  
He feels the Prussian tremble with the effort to contain venomous words at the touch, but he does not pull away.

"Great fucking help you are" Gilbert sneers eventually. "I am sure the people of Berlin appreciate it. East Germany will revere you." And Ivan laughs at the biting contempt in these words, because he honestly cannot make sense of this man. Not in any way. And it's what makes him so fun to have around! But also frustrating.  
Under strict rules and stiff uniforms was always an impulsive and fierce heart and Ivan would have hated to see its flames extinguished by the dust of the war settling and smothering the last fight left in him, it's just that hearts like that are so difficult to control.

"What now! I had to do this, because Alfred letting this get to his head and it would be unwise to let him do as he pleases. It is therefore his fault, not mine. If not for him and his meddling, I wouldn't have come here and you and Ludwig could pick up your pieces together. But…" Ivan trails off and smiles broadly, patting the shoulder he's put his hand on. "I did not get the impression that this is really what you want anyway."

The Prussian stops trembling and Ivan hears, almost inaudible, as he sucks in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. The truth is always so hard to swallow when it comes from somebody else.

"Do you wonder how I know? I know because you are a clever man. You can see what is on the horizon, and you do not want to die, so you come to me."

"Shut up."

"There is nothing wrong with it. You've watched over your brother for a long time, but he no longer needs you, and I imagine that hurts. So you want to be on your own now, because you are not needed there but you could find a new place where you can exist. That is okay, I will help."

"Shut your damn mouth!"

A few people turn their heads at the angry shout, but when they see who it is causing the ruckus, they quickly avert their eyes and pretend they do not see nor hear. Gilbert's red eyes are alive with frantic rage and wide with hurt, and he pathetically clutches his walking cane to his chest as if that could do him any good.  
Ivan smiles and smiles. And ruffles Gilbert's hair at the risk of getting hit with that cane, and sure enough, the sharp pain of ceramic hitting his head spreads through his skull and he stumbles back a step.

"It's okay, Gilbert. There's a place for you!" Ivan still chirps, ignoring the ache with ease and he gives the other a crooked smile, while Gilbert's face twists into a grimace of disgust.

"My place is with Ludwig. I only came to you because he cannot keep running back and forth between you and Alfred, I am doing this only to help him. Stop talking as if you know anything, Russia. Fuck off already" he spits, straightening his back and trying to stand without supporting himself on the cane as if pride makes you forget the pain, and it's really just curious.

The Russian sighs heavily and shakes his head at the denial, but a fond smile still tugs at his lips. "It's okay, you know. It's okay that you want to live and it's okay that you hate him—"

This time the cane hits him right in the nose and Ivan blinks through the pain in surprise, warm blood trickling down his face as Gilbert already hauls back his cane for another swing at him, and before it can connect with bone again, Ivan grabs it and twists it out of his hands. Fear flashes in those red eyes for a moment, but instead of hitting back, Ivan drops it to the ground, wiping away the blood that just keeps on coming.  
He knew there's resentment there but this is…

"It really is okay though. He's killing you, even if not on purpose."

"I don't hate him, you complete fucking idiot! I love my brother!" Gilbert growls like a wounded animal and clutches at his side, eye trained on him like he's going to kill him for this.

Ivan pauses, still rubbing at his nose and then he sighs again. "But why are you like this then? It would make sense if you hate him. He shot you, and he's slowly killing you, and he no longer needs you. He's pretending like he's over the war and leaves you behind. I don't understand?"

And for some reason a triumphant grin spreads across the Prussian's face against the pain he must be in and he lets out a barking laugh. "Of course you wouldn't understand! You could never understand family. It's beyond you."

The words _sting_.

 _Ludwig, who lied broken and half-crazy and suicidal on that train, sobbing because he shot his brother and still claimed he loved him. Gilbert, who stands trembling and in pain before him, screaming because he separated himself from the brother he claims he loves._

And Ivan really does not understand, any of it. How love can work like that, how can family work like that, just how much anger and resentment and hurt fits in there and still doesn't scratch at the love.  
Ivan is still on the outside looking in.

And Gilbert knows.

So he really does not like the turn this conversation took.

The Russian pouts and crosses his arms in front of his chest, looking up to the sky again at the planes carrying supplies for the people he's cut off from the rest of the world in their own little cauldron. Really bothersome how each of his actions is countered by more audacity.

"Maybe it is. But not much longer, you know. I have a proper family too now, and I will learn how to be a good brother, and then I will understand."

Gilbert just laughs, and it's really irritating that sound, so grating and annoying.

"Maybe you can even teach me, because there's a place for you with us. We both know what is coming and under these circumstances, you and Ludwig will not be together again for a long time. But there's always a place for you in my family. We welcome you, and you will live with us, you will stay alive. You'll be able to apologize to Eliza in person."

Ivan drops his voice to a whisper once more.

"And I suppose if you really love your brother and he loves you, then this is better than dying anyway, right? Wouldn't he want you to live?"

From above rain little candies with parachutes.

.

.

.

And Gilbert almost looks happy when they build the wall.

.

.

.

 **End of July, 1969**

"Thank you, Eliza!"

His smile is not returned, and Elizaveta merely takes her seat again and holds her glass of juice in her hands instead of drinking. He watches her with half-lidded eyes as he takes a sip from the drink she brought him; she's always so quiet whenever he comes by to visit these days, so quiet that he misses the days where she would scream and shout and kick at him.  
He's told Gilbert, and Gilbert called him masochistic and sneered at him, and then Ivan might have bullied him into coming along when visiting her in the future. Though he doesn't know why he even needed to be so forceful with him when he knows he likes visiting Eliza; maybe he was just being bratty.

Ivan huffs at the memory and the sweet juice on his tongue turns sour so he sets down his glass with a clink and leans forward to rest his arms on the table and take in his surroundings.

Eliza has it nice, he notes once more with his gaze resting on the blooming sea of flowers in the tall grass. Her country is doing splendid, and even if it bugs him that she was willing to accept alterations to the system he's given her, he has to admit he enjoys the results. It's why he comes here of all places in this summer when his nerves are stretched to their limit. It's not the sandy beaches in the south but the sun still kisses his skin here, the air still smells of warmth and nature, and the familiarity makes his insides twist with love. It's lovely.  
It makes him feel at ease and he wishes he could share it with more members of his family, but alas, they are too busy.

"Why so quiet?" he asks eventually when the silence stretches on with an easy smile on his lips; Eliza and Gilbert both shoot him a glare, and Ludwig simply shifts uncomfortably in his seat as if he'd rather be somewhere else. What an amusing sight. How many lies must Alfred have fed him, hm? Or is their last personal conversation still so fresh in his mind, are his eyes searching for that pipe, is the guilt still eating him up inside? Ivan hopes so.

"It must have been such an effort to get all the required papers so you could be with us, and now you're not even making any use of it" he says lightly, and Ludwig shifts again, visibly torn between giving an elaborate sincere answer and an insult, and in the end he holds his tongue completely. Keep silent and you can't do anything wrong.

Gilbert leans over to his brother and whispers something to him, both of their expressions dark, and Elizaveta takes a sip from her drink. "It's no good to treat my guests so rudely, Russian. They're not here for your entertainment" she remarks snidely, not even looking at him and instead inspecting her nails. Quiet she is, but when she does speak to him, it's at least still with that old charming defiance of 1956 because no amount of blood can make her anything less than a fearless woman, just slightly wiser.

So Ivan simply chuckles and closes his eyes, ignoring the tense atmosphere around him. He does not understand the doom and gloom when they are given days like this, where he can forget about borders and petty revolutions (how _dare_ they—) and moon landings and mutually assured destruction. People really do need to be forced onto the path to happiness sometimes and then they've got the gall to be ungrateful! The things he does for family.

In no mood to pursue conflict further, the Russian is content to bath in the sun as the other three eventually chat quietly among themselves about trivial things, about what was on TV, about the weather, oh it's nice that you have your own car now, Gilbert!  
They do not ask Ludwig about what it is like in the west, what kind of pretty things he has there, what kind of car he drives, what his politicians are like. Gilbert joking calls him West, and Ludwig rolls his eyes with a pained smile.

Ivan cannot quite put his finger on what exactly it is that causes him a sudden twinge of discomfort. A little thorn in his side, the strange taste of an approaching thunderstorm on his tongue.

"Gilbert, may I speak to you for a bit?"

His tone is nothing but polite and friendly, and yet the look Gilbert sends him is wary and for a second it seems he will not move at all from his spot, but then he slowly pushes himself to his feet. With a smile Ivan follows suit and guides his East German brother away from the table and steers him towards the other end of the garden that eventually opens to a large meadow where the grass almost gleams golden in the afternoon sun.

"How are you?"

"What, couldn't ask me that in front of the others?" jeers the other immediately; Ivan figured the caustic comments would grow on him some day but this much bitterness is just irritating. (Makes him wish he'd gotten Ludwig instead; he's obedient and spineless and good with paperwork.) "Same as always."

"Good, that is good! Just wondered. You were so down for a long while that it had me worried, but you really are back to your old self, working hard!" Gilbert just grimaces, glowering with eyes like embers in an unspoken 'don't remind me'. Don't remind him of how he cried in front of the one he denied a human name, cried because he approved of a wall, the last connection cut, and a new beginning always hurts at first.

Ivan prods further though, because the sense of danger is not fading, crawling up from his stomach to his lungs, nestling between ribs. "And Ludwig, how is he doing?"

The East German shrugs a little too quickly, biting his lip a little too hard. "He seems to be doing fine to me."

"He's wearing his hair differently now."

"I've noticed. Probably Alfred's doing if you ask me. That, or he took my advice to heart."

Ivan quirks an eyebrow and his mouth forms a little 'o' in surprise. "What kind of advice?"

Gilbert waves his hand dismissively, saying it was just something he might have commented negatively on in a little dispute they've had years ago. It means nothing. There is no reason why Ludwig should remember; the young always forget so much faster.

The alarms begin to ring in some recess of Ivan's mind, still distant but it's nothing he can overlook in a moment like this.

"Have you two reconciled?" Ivan inquiries innocently, and the twitchy smile on Gilbert's face dies a pitiful death, his body tensing instantly as the underlying sharpness in this simple question does not escape his notice. He's trapped, the only thing moving is his pale blonde hair in a chilly breeze.  
There's a certain satisfaction about this, how you can see the 'that's none of your business' form on his lips but not come across, a cold analytical mind stifling a foolish heart.

It takes a minute until Gilbert answers, and his tone betrays his reluctance. "We've spoken when the first trial was announced. It…cleared some things up. So I suppose."

(Too late, because the wall already stood.)

A tense second passes by, and then Ivan laughs freely and throws his arm around Gilbert's shoulder, feeling him wince and twist in his grip in protest.

"I'm happy to hear this! You were always so close, and it was terrible to watch how the lack of closure tortured you… Now you can both move on, yes?" Ivan says merrily, still half-hugging his comrade and anchoring him in place as he nods, hesitantly and just once.  
"One of his scars is back" Gilbert murmurs after a moment, catching Ivan by surprise and it takes him a moment to recall the stitches that once held Ludwig together. "So I truly stand on my own now. I've made it. I'm _alive_."

"A cause for celebration!" the Russian exclaims, grin widening as his heartbeat slows and the ice of fear in his veins slowly melts back into insignificant little particles. He was afraid that Gilbert would have— and he wouldn't want to punish him again so soon.  
Gilbert doesn't smile. "You are not on your own though. There is still Eliza, and I, and all the others. …The other Baltics look up to you and admire how hard you work, how much you endure. Should you ever struggle, I am sure they would be there for you as well."

"No offense, Russia, but I will never be part of that little family you dream up. West is the only brother I know" Gilbert says dryly, using that nickname again – he can't let go after all.  
"And that even though you were once a Baltic child" Ivan tuts, and suddenly the other grabs his scarf and pulls at it harshly until Ivan's next breath comes out strangled.

"I'm no Balt! I'm German, not Baltic!" the East German snarls, a shadow of how he was at the beginning in his black uniform and red armband and lecturing about the lesser breeds. The red eyes stare blindly for a split second that makes Ivan wonder what kind of conversations he's had for him to react like this. His breathing is all but stertorous against the fabric constricting his throat and he counts the seconds it takes for Gilbert to realize his mistake and let go and apologize for his rudeness.

He stumbles back after a full five seconds, covering his mouth as if in horror over his own actions and the red eyes frantically search his face, so the Russian grants him a soft smile showing just a few teeth to many.

"No need for shame over your roots. You are still Ludwig's brother" Ivan assures, rubbing his stinging throat exaggeratedly and enjoying the way the once so proud Prussian scrambling away from him at the smallest threatening gesture.

Just like earlier, when he asked about reconciliation and Gilbert avoided saying anything that sounded too much like 'Let me go back to him, I regret my choice, let me go back'.

"Let's head back, yes?"

.

.

.

"Leave them alone" Eliza tells him as they watch Ludwig and Gilbert climb back into the car they arrived with. "You're being unnecessarily cruel to them."

"They carry a conflict on their backs that isn't even theirs just because of that selfishness of yours and Alfred's" she says as she puts away the glasses and juice she set out for today. "You've got it easy because you are not in the middle of the bombs. You don't have to go to bed and wonder if tomorrow you will have to kill your brother. You don't have to risk stepping on landmines to see your family."

"Stop acting like you own us" she demands, and Ivan covers her mouth with his hand because that talk is boring him.

.

.

.

Little does he know she will be the undoing of his family.

.

.

.

 **1989**

He knows 'the jig is up' (as Alfred would say) when he spots them together one day, Elizaveta and Ludwig, shifty bastards. As soon as he came closer, they disappeared into the crowd and scattered.

They are planning something.

.

.

.

And then Eliza manages to plunge the knife into his back.

"It's just a picnic, Ivan" she says sweetly as she releases Roderich from her embrace.

The border— The restriction has been lifted, she did it— she let this happen.

The border is open and behind them, Germans spill into Austria as if a dam had broken under relentless assault, but in truth one damn traitor had simply opened the gates. And she has the audacity to speak to him like this and he doesn't understand, wasn't he a kind brother, didn't she have a good life?

Why are they doing this to him?

The Austrian shakes like a leaf under Ivan's gaze, but Elizaveta only smiles and waves at somebody.

Ivan turns just in time to see Gilbert sprint across the field and all but tackles his brother waiting on the other side with all the wild abandon of an unsupervised child, and for the first time in decades, he laughs and the sound is genuine and dripping with relief to the last note when it morphs into sobbing as if the wall is already gone.

Suicidal, Gilbert must be suicidal, is all that the Russian can think as he silently witnesses this reunion of brothers, from the outside looking in.

There is no way the old Prussian doesn't know what the consequences of this will be, there is no way he doesn't know that if he returns to his brother then— If he breaks down that wall— If he crosses the ravine that divides them…

He will die.

And he _chooses_ death.  
Chooses it all for the chance to embrace the brother he raised and the brother who shot him as thanks.  
(Ivan cannot understand because Gilbert never did teach him how that can be reconciled, how that can be made sense of, how it can be forgiven, because they never were family— because Ivan was never a brother, never a friend—)

Well, he can choose all he wants because Ivan will not let this be the end. They are celebrating and smiling smugly now and laughing at his crumbling family, but as his ribcage expands in the heat of rage he vows that this is not the end.  
When the enemy last stood upon his threshold he did not back down, he threw himself into battle over and over and soaked the fields with his own blood, and if he must, he will do it again.

The wall will not fall and his family will not break.


	10. Prussian blues

**The last chapter of the mainstory, oh myyy! We've come a long way for sure! This was so much fun to write, and as I said in the last chapter I will continue to write little things set in this storyline. I'm weak, what can I say!**

 **Anyway, thank you so much for reading, and for the feedback so far!**

* * *

 **Present day**

The gravel scrunches beneath Gilbert's polished shoes as he strolls down the paths of the graveyard; he's dressed in his very best suit despite the humid summer air, his hair is neatly combed, the dark circles under his eyes are covered with powder he refuses to admit he used, so he no longer looks like 'a mess', to borrow the words of a Frenchman who shall not be named.  
Admittedly he's not been this well-put together in a long time, but he figured it would only be right to show up at his best – a former nation paying a former citizen his respects. There's so few of them left, if those who remember him as Prussia, as the man he truly was and is, that he can feel it when one of them passes.

The ceremony was a small one, attended only by family members. Quiet affair too. Nobody had tried to talk to him when he'd shown up and watched as the casket was lowered into the ground, as if they had been expecting him somehow, the man with skin just a shade too dark to be albino and eyes too red to be anything else.  
Once the humans left, it was only Gilbert and the silent gravestone so he spoke a short prayer, placed a lone flower among the bouquets the family left, asked himself for a moment if this one was one of those he rescued from the field, and turned his back as well. A prayer was all he could give now anyway and sentimentalities are no good for him. Reminiscing may be all he does lately but that doesn't make it _good_.

And now he doesn't want to go home again.

It's a bit silly maybe, but home feels too big and too empty when Ludwig is out and about and doing things, working for a future and generally having a purpose, and the others don't answer Gilbert's calls half of the time because they've got things to do as well, " _we're not here to entertain you, Gilbert_ ". It kind of really sucks. A lot. It made him lethargic and obnoxious and then people wanted to be around him even less.  
And at least being outside here has some sort of sense, some illusion of a purpose. The last act of a nation he has to give, a visit and a prayer, a dead man among his kind. There's poetry in that, right? Another one of these things Gilbert wishes he had been better at already for Friedrich's sake, but there's things even he couldn't learn.

His legs begin to hurt after a while because he's been up and about without sitting down once all day, so he decides that taking a break here won't be too big a crime – the perfect excuse for sticking around, for staying here.  
It's a little breather, a welcome little break from reality, just like that time last summer when he said goodbye to Ludwig and began his journey back to the broken little house in East Prussia. Well, East Prussia no longer. (Try telling his heart that though) Just as they had left it, crumbling from neglect, silent as a grave. Some old blood splatters Gilbert hadn't managed to remove back then.

It had been so tranquil.

With a sigh, Gilbert plops down on the bench, knowing it'll leave wrinkles in his suit so he carefully takes off the jacket and gingerly folds it up next to him. He then slumps in on himself a little more, knowing that it's probably going to get him some weird looks from the few people out here but not caring all too much.  
He already knows he's being ridiculous. A grown man who can't stand to be alone for a day or two, that _is_ pretty pathetic, and to hang out at a graveyard because it feels peaceful is just morbid. So whatever it is people are going to think of him, there's a pretty good chance they're right.

An obsolete relic drowning in self-pity.

Gilbert watches the passersby with half-lidded eyes; a man walking his tiny dog, a jogger or two, old couples looking for where they'd like to have their graves together one day. Two teenage girls pick their way through the rows of gravestones and speak in hushed whispers, pointing out the most tragic fates they can find to one another based on the dates inscribed in the stone's surface and their state of maintenance.  
Funny how some tragedies can be compressed into numbers alone.

The girls fall silent and watch warily whenever somebody draws close, continuing only once they feel like nobody is going to judge their behavior as unsettling or irreverent.  
Eventually they spot him and fall into the same grave silence as they had with other people, regarding him with a trace more skepticism, so Gilbert shrugs and demonstratively pulls out his phone from his jacket to open up one of the many mindless games he'd downloaded onto it. He's not any more respectful than they're being.

After a while the two cautiously move on. Look, this one – only lived to 20.

Gilbert has compressed his own tragedy into a number of recordings and videos for Ludwig to find one day.

Gilbert proceeds to listlessly tap on his phone's screen even once the kids are gone, already because it gives him something less creepy to do than watch other people and because it keeps his mind from wandering deeper into darker topics. He's got a missed call for once, but he doesn't feel like reconnecting with that part of reality just yet. Not when he's got virtual cats to feed and when the world around him feels so blissfully distant and unreal with the strangely dull light of noon and the slight fog that leaves the edges of everything looking softened and fuzzy.

He hardly notices that an hour passes.

And then another one.

After another half an hour, he gets company so that's the end of that.

"May I sit here?"

With a heavy sigh and an irritated smile, Gilbert picks up his suit jacket, dusts it off carefully, and scoots a bit to the side to make enough space for his brother to sit down.

"How did you find me?" he asks once Ludwig has settled down, not sparing him a glance because maybe if he doesn't look at him he doesn't feel the misery that's finally crept out of the crevice of his brain, trickling slowly into his bloodstream.

"You left a note, brother."

"…Did I. Oh."

Well there's that. Ludwig doesn't comment on it further and Gilbert appreciates the silence even though he can't really go back into his former mental state anymore. The world has come into focus again, no more cotton fills his head.

He risks a single glance; Ludwig is staring straight ahead with an unreadable expression and his posture is stiff, hands laced together and resting in his lap. Mirroring Gilbert's pose, just not slouching.

Gilbert nudges him in the side with a tired grin. "What brought you here though?" he questions further, and Ludwig looks back at him for a moment before he looks up to the trees on the other side, beyond the graves.  
"You didn't come home so I figured I should check whether something held you up" Ludwig answers. "I—didn't really know how long the ceremony would take or how long you'd stay, so I. waited until now. I didn't want to intrude."

The German's hands fidget just a bit, betraying his discomfort, and Gilbert cannot help but laugh quietly and lean against his brother's side. "The ceremony was over pretty quick. I just felt like being outside here a little longer" he explains, not expecting Ludwig to understand, not yet. As expected all he gets in response is a confused look from his brother, which is nearly identical to his annoyed expression but Gilbert is familiar with all the subtle nuances of Germany's expressions. They haven't really changed a bit since his childhood after all.

They fall back into silence, but this one is heavier and Gilbert scowls when he realizes it's heavy not because it's awkward but because he actually wants to _talk_. Too many words in his throat that have built up because he never had the gall to say them.

Poetry and emotional honesty, Gilbert's greatest weaknesses.

The Prussian rises to his feet in an elegant motion, twirls just a bit to face his brother who is watching him with a guarded expression but follows suit after a moment of hesitation. Side by side they walk for a bit, hedges on one side and the dead on the other, with the gravel scrunching beneath their polished shoes. Gilbert thinks of the recordings again, and the videos. He had them digitalized a while ago, and in the process he'd been forced to listen to himself ramble and make a fool out of himself and he'd been tempted to destroy them all for a moment. Especially the one from 1940.

"Ludwig."

That's a start, and his voice isn't even trembling!

"Ludwig, can we talk about it."

Ludwig pauses in his confident stride, and he turns his head slightly to meet Gilbert's eye, expression blank again but face paler than usual. He's got some freckles back again. "If you wish."

Gilbert sighs and kicks at the little pebbles in his path.

"I'm sorry for… just doing weird things. And I don't just mean hanging out at a cemetery for no discernible reason, I mean… Everything, like wandering off _without_ leaving notes, or just buying things impulsively on the Internet, or making a complete idiot of myself in front of other people. Like right now. Fuck, I'm acting and sounding like I'm the younger brother–" Gilbert says in a rush, the words too eager to come out for his mouth, and a nervous energy in his chest compels him to start laughing again but he doesn't want to concern Ludwig any further.  
And a look tells him that he is already giving him a pinched look, his brows furrowed but eyes uncharacteristically soft. And he doesn't speak at first, for a whole eternity it feels in which Gilbert wishes he'd kept his damn mouth shut. Ludwig doesn't need to know anything about his mental state until he's actually six feet under and can't feel humiliated anymore.

"Sorry if… I gave you that feeling?" Ludwig eventually ventures, the words carrying uncertainty if you listen closely enough. Apologies from Ludwig always sound like a question if he's not muttering them with childish defiance, and yet Gilbert knows he means it. "I know I am a bit rough on you, so if that is the issue, I apologize for it because it's not my intention."

Gilbert punches him in the upper arm, not sure how else to express the sudden rush of embarrassment – when all else fails, just punch. Worked pretty well for him throughout his life.

"Grow a spine Ludwig and acknowledge when I'm being an ass, yeah?" Gilbert mutters, because they've discussed the whole spine thing to hell and back. "It's not your fault, it's because I shouldn't be behaving like this in the first place."

Ludwig sighs and presses his lips into a thin line, his brow crinkling further the way it does whenever he's about to scold somebody for acting out of line, but he keeps his mouth shut. He won't argue this for once, thank God.

"It's really just me. I am just not really good at accepting the facts" Gilbert continues and he can sense Ludwig tensing up at the words because it's the closest they've gotten in a long time to addressing Gilbert's state. It's easy to treat him like any other nation on any other day, but then he does things like this and the illusion crumbles, and usually Gilbert does everything in his might to ensure that this moment doesn't come for Ludwig.

"I said some pretty horrible things to you in the past because I was so terrified of dying – so damn scared. I left you in a crowd of panicked humans and pretended you weren't there when I first found you just because I got it in my head that it could kill me— what kind of asshole does that? And I just still can't really…" Gilbert needs to pause, licks his dry lips in the hopes that he can stall long enough for Ludwig to call it off and say he doesn't want to keep talking about this. But he's the big brother, he can't and shouldn't chicken out of this.

"Still can't really imagine it happening to me. And I don't want to. Can't imagine myself fading like the others even though I've already carried other nations to the grave. I made fun of them for wanting something that was going to cost them their lives and then they were just - gone."

Maybe he should've phrased that less in a way that made it sound like it was Ludwig's fault.

"Oh, sometimes I feel like Bayern is still out lurking somewhere. The scar is back at least" Ludwig says suddenly in all seriousness with a comically dark expression, and for some reason, that is enough to make Gilbert laugh out loud, unrestrained. The seriousness and the absurdity of it, and then Ludwig's petulant tone.

"Fucking bastard" Gilbert says breathlessly, burying his face in his hands and trying to not sound hysterical. "Of course he'd outlive me. All you other guys outliving me, I can handle that, but him? Cruel twist of fate. Did you know he's a little bit at fault for you having the name Ludwig?"

Ludwig blinks away his concerned expression as if he can't quite follow the shift in tone of the conversation but still wants to make a valiant effort. "I thought it was because you wanted to spite Francis. I remember that moment quite well."

"Well of course, that was a stroke of genius on my part, but the name was already among the ones I was seriously considering" Gilbert admitted, internally both glad and mad at himself for going off topic like this, but he's a sentimental man after all if he's honest with himself and talking about their shared memories is better than talking about death.  
"You see, Bayern was being the most stubborn out of them all about letting _me_ raise you and no matter what I said, he wouldn't budge. So I told him I'd name you after his king to placate him. Which I didn't really intend to do at the time, but then… you know what came then."

Ludwig gives a weak chuckle and finally they start walking again. "That was unfair of you, if typical."

"I did end up doing it, did I not? And besides, I did a lot of things back then that were unfair" Gilbert reminds him, still carrying a smile as nostalgia begins to wash away the fear, mixing in curious ways with the misery.

"You did. But as you would tell me: sometimes you need to sacrifice ideals if the goal is worth it."

"And it was worth it in this case."

Ludwig tenses again as if in protest, so Gilbert punches him again, taking a shuddering breath. "How about you just accept what I say when I'm trying to express that I don't regret raising you?"

Ludwig mutters a little 'ow' and rubs his arm, nearly pouting – this is better. Pouting petulant Ludwig and older brother Gilbert who gets to chide him for it, that's more like it. _Don't steal cookies, don't climb on trees, don't disobey your brother._ At least Ludwig still doesn't argue, which means that Gilbert can continue digging up old, dusty memories like the proper old man he is.

"Do you remember what else I told you that time?" he asks softly as the images resurface, and he knows Ludwig does the second his blue eyes light up bright with emotion.

"You said…"

" _'Ich bin der Kopf des Reiches, du das Herz'_ " the Prussian finishes for him, pleased that Ludwig hadn't forgotten it because it was one of the few times when Gilbert had managed to vocalize some of his affection in a way that wasn't theatrical. Again, emotional honesty, not his forte, and even that time it was in a roundabout, indirect manner, skirting around the issue against his own virtues.

" _'I'm the mind of the empire, you the heart'_ " Ludwig repeats almost pensively, his look distant for a second before he focuses back into reality and looks Gilbert in the face. "As upset as I was that day, it made me really happy that you said that."

This time it is Gilbert who blinks owlishly, cheeks quickly coloring red with embarrassment at the direct admission and the reverent tone. "It was just something to shut you up" he lies quickly to cover it up, and Ludwig looks just as embarrassed as he himself feels.  
"Well. It meant a lot to me back then. I felt like I wasn't getting anything right so…" Ludwig doesn't finish the sentence, and coughs instead.

Silence-relapse.

Gilbert rubs his hands together, careful to not drop his suit jacket, and he hangs his head low as he continues to speak "You were angry that I was being too pragmatic and I was angry because your idealism wasn't applicable to reality because you were a naïve… you were a little shit." - Ludwig nods solemnly - "And I suppose I rubbed off on you in the worst of ways in that regard, and that's why Prussia produced Bismarck and Germany produced Nazis."

Ludwig for a second looks like he's going to slap him.  
But he doesn't.  
Just looks at him with a pained expression and Gilbert feels horrible for making that impulsive comment.

"Brother" the German says warningly and a nervous chuckle comes out of Gilbert's throat unbidden again. "Sorry. Sorry I just sometimes I still feel bitter. Because I know I've got not just a small part in that as well. I made… a lot of mistakes back then when I raised you. Though it's not my fault you look like Hitler's wet dream—"

"Brother! That's just _disgusting._ "

"I'll cut it out, sorry. That's what I meant by acting weird. I'm babbling like an idiot and spending too much time dwelling on stupid thoughts and then I feel angry and vindictive and bitter. And I take it out on you _again_! That's why I felt I needed to… get away for a while today."

He hastens his pace once the words are out so he can draw ahead of Ludwig and won't have to directly see the repercussions of the confession, but Ludwig catches up with nearly no delay and eventually blocks Gilbert's path – the little paths in the graveyard aren't very broad, but Ludwig is, so Gilbert can't make an easy escape. The blond looks pretty determined, but Gilbert knows he's not able to meet his eye and his speech falters when he tries to reprimand his older brother.

"That was awful, Gilbert. But please don't spend your free time in graveyards." And it sounds almost pleading. "I don't want to think about this. About you dying. I know I said we can talk about this but I can't after all. It's something that will happen, and I know that, but there's not really anything that either of us can do about it. Talking about it is… excessive."

Gilbert takes a deep breath of relief. Now they can go back to ignoring it, and Ludwig can go back to being a functional member of society and Gilbert can make more recordings because in comparison it's so much easier to say "I'm proud of you" when the person in question isn't right in front of you.

They've almost reached the gate now and Gilbert swallows around the lump in his throat, the miserable sentimentality and nostalgia, the shared memories. There's still something he needs to get out, some last few words lodged in his windpipe. Just behind the vocal cords.

"I really don't want to die."

Ludwig doesn't respond at first again, and his words are so quiet that Gilbert nearly misses them. "…I don't want you to die either. I can't let go." The way he says it is like a scared child, the child Ludwig hardly got to be, like he can barely admit it to himself.

The Prussian breathes more easily again, some of the weight on his shoulders leaving him and his breathing no longer obstructed by unspoken words.

"That makes two of us then."

He puts one arm around his brother and pulls them both to the exit, suddenly very eager to get away from this place. Of course some part of him knows that this is not how it should be. That he should be in bed and dying like his siblings had before him. That it's unhealthy that they can't let go, but he can't help but be glad. Glad that he is still here, glad that something keeps him anchored among the living, that he others haven't forgotten him and make it possible for him to miss calls, glad that Ludwig needs him still.  
They're two men who don't know how to move on.

Out of all things in the world, dying is the thing Gilbert is worst at.

.

.

.

(Gilbert finds at home that his brother bought him a little gift - a rubber duck, a special "Friedrich the Great"-version. It's awful, but it makes his heart ache with love and he keeps it among all the other things Ludwig has given him over the decades, every drawing and every little trinket, along with the old, well-maintained coat that no longer carries the scent of its old wearer, but Gilbert holds on to it anyway. Holds on to all the little pieces.)

* * *

 **Alles hat ein Ende, nur die Wurst hat zwei. / Everything has an end, only sausage has two. -** _German proverb._


End file.
